


The Bad Touch

by ParadiseAvenger



Category: Lockwood & Co. - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: Child Abuse, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Murder, Prostitution, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:09:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 53,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23761342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ParadiseAvenger/pseuds/ParadiseAvenger
Summary: touch: see definitions - (1) to come so close to (an object) as to be or come into contact with it (2) to handle in order to manipulate, alter, or otherwise affect, especially in an adverse way (3) a small amount; a traceWhen an Agent uses their Talent, they connect intimately with a spirit during the worst moment of their life. They feel the events and emotions leading to their death fully. It isn't easy, but it's sometimes necessary.
Relationships: Lucy Carlyle/Anthony Lockwood
Comments: 72
Kudos: 115





	1. The Wild Rose

I just finished this whole book series and read all the fanfiction I could so now I, of course, feel the need to write some of my own. [If you've never read Lockwood and Co, I'm going to give you some basics in this first chapter here so you should be able to enjoy this ghost story regardless of if you've read everything or not. If you're already a fan, just go with it.]

XXX

“Would you _shut up_!” Lucy Carlyle hissed.

Sensing something in their colleague's voice, the other members of Lockwood & Company stopped bickering. They split their full attention between being mindful of Lucy and taking stock of their surroundings. After all, the vast field beside the dry riverbed overflowing with sanguine wild roses wasn't the easiest place to investigate, especially when one didn't know what the spirit's Source was, and they were eager for any clue Lucy's particular Talent could provide.

The moment stretched out with Lucy poised on the balls of her feet, Listening. All night, she had been driven near-to-mad by the constant psychic burbling of the long-dried brook. She was the only member of Lockwood and Co who could hear spirits. Now, she finally heard something beyond the gurgle of water. Was that a voice singing or screaming, the sighing of the thorny rosebushes, or the distant cackle of night birds?

“Hear something, Luce?” George Cubbins asked when she didn't say anything.

Lucy cracked an eye to glower at him.

George was soft and out of shape, puffing from the long walk. His pale hair was mussed and damp, drooping over his eyes and obscuring his glasses. As their resident researcher, his hands were dry from combing ancient archives for information and he had done his due diligence on the Wild Rose already. Lucy valued him as a coworker and friend, but there were times that he got on her nerves—namely laundry day, when it was his turn to make lunch, and during cases that weren't going so well.

Anthony Lockwood stepped between them, blocking Lucy's glare with his tall lean body. “Why don't we take a break? Holly, how about some tea?” From the pocket of his great flapping coat, he produced a bar of chocolate, snapped off a hefty piece, and held it out to Lucy. “Okay?” His deep eyes twinkled under his fringe of dark hair, a thousand-watt smile turned up just for Lucy.

Lucy grudgingly accepted the chocolate and turned her back on the dry creek. Now that she wasn't actively Listening, the sound wasn't quite so annoying. She imagined that she heard more of what her companions did—crickets chirruping, a distant owl crying, the whisper of the wind, her own thudding heartbeat. Listening was a rough Talent and she was on edge.

George quickly unwound some thin chain from his pack, made a circle, and barricaded them inside it. The Wild Rose—better known as Eliza Day in life (1)—wasn't known to be a violent ghost, but they didn't want to leave anything to chance. It was better to be safe than sorry and they had learned that lesson the hard way.

“Tea, Lucy,” Holly Munro offered. She held out a traveling cup and filled it from her thermos.

“Thanks,” Lucy said more out of habit than anything else. She sipped the tea and ate the chocolate.

Despite the long walk to get to the site of Eliza's murder, Holly wasn't rumpled in the least. Lockwood had brought her on as a secretary-cum-housekeeper months ago, but as their little agency earned more and more acclaim, they had needed an additional agent as well. Holly fit the bill, much to Lucy's original chagrin, but after a particularly harrowing case with a poltergeist and a heart-to-heart, Holly and Lucy became fast friends. Besides, it was nice to have another girl on the team. Even if that girl was slender, perfectly-pressed, had a winning complexion, and wouldn't be caught with a doughnut in her mouth.

George and Holly were quiet, watching Lucy as they ate and drank. Lockwood stood with his back to Lucy, gazing at the sandy shore of the old creek. He had the best Sight out of all of them and was probably hoping for a glimpse of Eliza so that they could pack this case in and go home. The night was getting long and they had been walking for ages.

“Remind me again why the city needs to bulldoze this particular stretch of wilderness for the new nature reserve?” George asked grumpily as he wound the chains up and stowed them back in his duffel. The weight pulled his trousers treacherously low.

Holly averted her eyes and busied herself stowing the thermos. “That isn't our concern,” she said airily. She checked her work belt, making sure all her salt grenades and magnesium flares were secure. “None of the larger agencies were willing to take this case on, even though the city is paying handsomely.”

“They must have realized how much walking would be involved,” George huffed. “We should charge extra for every mile.”

Lockwood chose to ignore them, standing side-by-side with Lucy. “What do you hear?” he asked.

Lucy rubbed her temples. “Just the river,” she said, “the water running.”

Lockwood regarded her. He didn't remind her that they were all counting on her Talent to suss out Eliza's location—she already knew that.

“It's getting louder,” Lucy continued, “so we must be getting close.” She adjusted her satchel, closing the flap a little more securely over the eerie green glow flickering within.

Lockwood's dark eyes tracked the movement. “Any word from him?”

“Nothing,” Lucy said. “He's quiet. He's... pouting.”

“I'm not pouting!” came a cranky protest from her bag.

Lucy breathed out heavily. “What would you call it, then?”

Lockwood tilted his head quizzically.

Lucy opened the flap of her bag to show him.

Immediately, a hideous ghostly face goggled at them from within the confines of a large bell jar, cheeks puffed, tongue pressed against the glass, dead eyes bulging. Inside the protective silver-glass that Lucy carried in her bag, there was a Source—a withered brown skull with a spirit attached to it. The Skull, stolen from the Fittes Agency by George during his tenure there, was a rare Type Three ghost that was capable of carrying on a full conversation. The only downside was that only Lucy could hear him and, for a rare peek at the Other Side, he was spectacularly unhelpful and mostly rude.

“I'm stewing. I'm steaming. I'm boiling in rage,” the Skull ground out. It mashed its face even harder against the glass, giving a repulsive view of the skull within the swirling glowing mass of ectoplasm that made up its current form. Finally, when Lucy didn't look impressed, it settled on, “I'm plotting your demise.”

Lucy turned her attention back to her surroundings. “Well, let me know when you think of something good or decide to be helpful.”

The Skull grumbled.

“Any insight?” Lockwood asked, though it was clear he already knew the answer.

Lucy made the shape of a zero with her thumb and forefinger. Jostling her satchel, Lucy started Listening again and found herself drawn closer and closer to the dry creek. The others trailed behind her for probably another half-mile. As she had told Lockwood, the sound of the water was growing louder, but she could detect something else too. It sounded like someone was singing. According to George's research, that was a sure sign of Eliza's presence.

“I can hear singing,” Lucy informed the group. “A woman's voice. It's very faint, but its getting closer.”

“Well, this fits the description as well as anything else,” George told them. “The creek, the wild roses, lots of big bludgeoning rocks.”

Lockwood rested his hand on his rapier, scanning the undergrowth for any signs of a Death Glow. George rearranged the circle of chains on a flat patch of ground nearby, in case they needed a safe place to retreat. Holly kept her vigil beside Lucy, quiet as a church mouse. Lucy was free to Listen.

The song was beautiful and melancholic. The creeping malaise of sorrow soaked into Lucy's bones, making her body feel cold and stiff. Her satchel was so heavy—maybe if she could just put it down for a moment, kneel by the stream, and take a long drink. She would feel better. Right, she was sure cupping her hands in that cool water would—

“God,” griped the Skull. “What a racket. This broad could do with some singing lessons.”

Lucy was snapped out of the ghost-lock abruptly, brushing away the clinging thoughts like a handful of cobwebs. “We're close,” she told them. “I hear the song.”

Lockwood curled his long fingers around the hilt of his rapier. “Not just the song,” he murmured.

Lucy turned to see where he was pointing. Though her Sight was poor, she easily made out the shape of a young woman in a flowing dress walking alongside the dry stream in the moonlight. Her form was aglow with ghost-light, tendrils of pale fog rising off her white skin and hair. There were bright blooms of red on her though. One she carried in her hand as a single red rose. The other was the outpouring of blood from her bashed-in head. Her lips moved as she sang, blood running down her face and into her mouth, bubbling back out again, flowing down her chest, staining her white dress. It was an unsettling sight.

Holly shivered and drew her rapier. “The Source?”

“Standard practice, everyone,” Lockwood instructed. “She's a Type One. If we disrupt her pattern, she should return to her Source to regroup.”

“There are thousands of possible Sources here,” George protested. “What if her Source is the rock her boyfriend used to murder her? We could be here for hours looking.”

“Let me try to talk to her,” Lucy said.

Lockwood opened his mouth to protest.

“I know you're not a fan,” Lucy told him. “But she's a Type One, this is a big open area, you all can see her very well, and should have plenty of time to jump in if something starts to go wrong. Just let me try so we aren't stuck here _tomorrow_ night combing every rock and rosebush for the next two square miles.”

“Alright,” Lockwood relented. “But I'm jumping in the second something looks dodgy.”

“Noted,” Lucy agreed.

Leaving her companions behind in the circle of chains, Lucy stepped a few paces outside of it so the iron wouldn't interfere with her Talents. While they were discussing their next move, Eliza Day had stopped walking and approached the sandy shore where the stream had once run. She cupped her hands out in the mimicry of getting a drink, still singing softly, burbling blood.

“Hello,” Lucy called softly. The downside to Listening was that in order to have the ghost open up, the agent in question had to lower their defenses and open up to the ghost. Since ghost-touch was fatal, that vulnerability was too much of a risk in most cases. But, in times like these, with a trusted team at her back, Lucy felt secure enough to risk it. She knew the second Eliza made a move towards her, Lockwood would close the gap. In fact, he might intervene even before it was necessary.

The ghost didn't respond, continuing to sing. “They call me the Wild Rose,” she crooned, “but my name was Eliza Day...”

“Eliza?” Lucy tried. She crouched down near the edge of the dry creek, leaving that small expanse between them so that she would have some time to react if things went south.

“Why they call me it, I do not know... for my name was Eliza Day...”

“How droll,” the Skull muttered.

Lucy ignored him and called, “Hello, Eliza Day.”

At her name, the ghost lifted her face from the view of the once-rushing water. Her blue eyes met Lucy's and she was astoundingly beautiful, though the hideous gash in her skull and the pouring blood diminished it. Up close, her dress was more modern than Lucy had been expecting with manufactured lace, plastic buttons, and a square neckline. Eliza appeared younger as well. No cleavage peeked over the neck of her dress, she wore a charm bracelet, her face was without makeup save some poorly-applied red lipstick—she was just a girl, little younger than Lucy maybe.

“What are you looking for?” Lucy asked.

Eliza tilted her head. Blood stopped pouring into her mouth and instead pattered on her shoulder, dripping and rolling down her arm to soak into the sandy soil. “My name was Eliza Day,” she murmured. Her speaking voice was much softer than the one she had been using to sing.

Lucy had to strain to hear her. “Yes, it was.”

Eliza looked at the rose in her hand. “They call me the Wild Rose.”

“Do you know why?” Lucy asked.

Eliza looked around slowly at the dry creek, the overgrown garden, the endless see of blood-red petals. “The last thing I heard was a muttered word,” she murmured. Her white hand fluttered to the bloody crown of her head, the rose dangling between her fingers. “He... he had a rock... in his fist.”

The phantom stream chuckled.

Eliza Day didn't move. She remained kneeling at the edge of the water, blood pouring, her blue eyes far-seeing, the rose hanging from her hand like a dead thing.

Lucy shifted position, reaching out a hand to steady herself. She must have been crouching there longer than she thought. Her legs were numb, her ankles and knees stiff, her feet cold. Her fingers brushed a ruddy stone that had cracked free of the roots of a nearby rosebush. The perfume was so sweet, so heady, so potent.

“Lucy,” came the Skull's voice. “I wouldn't—”

It was already too late.

Some loose shale slipped out from under Lucy's boot and she put her hand down on the rock for balance. Touch was one of the more erratic of an agent's Talents. Sometimes, one could Touch something and get the Source's entire life story. Other times, it was just an errant feeling. Sometimes, there would be nothing at all, but hours later, one could be knocked off their feet by the physic outpouring from the very same object. In the case of the stone used to bludgeon Eliza Day to death, Lucy was immediately bombarded by the young girl's fear and agony at the moment of her death.

—

As was often the case in stories like this, a mysterious drifter came into the small town. Though warned off him, Eliza Day was fascinated. He wore a leather jacket and drove an old car. He claimed to have come from the coast, where the sun always shone and the beaches were golden.

The first day they only talked. He recited poetry, told tall tales, regaled her with stories. Eliza cried for the beauty of his words, swept off her feet like a princess. She had never had an opportunity to leave her little town and, unbeknownst to her, she never would. He cupped her face and wiped the tears away, thumbs stroking the apple of her cheeks.

On the second day, dodging her parents, sneaking out, he told Eliza that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He gifted her a single red rose, asking if she might accompany him to the creek where the wild roses grew. He was camped there in the woods, surrounded by the beauty. Eliza did not go with him that day and she would live only one more.

The very next day, she followed him to where the roses grew near the river. They were bloody and wild, gorgeous, but not more beautiful than she was. They walked and talked, kissed and laughed, spiraling deeper and deeper into the wilderness. In the summer heat, dizzy from romance and blushing, Eliza grew thirsty and knelt near the water to drink.

_'All beauty must die,' _he said.__

__Eliza turned to look at him, limned golden in the sunlight. She opened her mouth to ask what he had said._ _

__The rock fractured her skull on the first blow. Pain lanced through her and she fell into the shallows of the icy river, thrashing, trying to scream. Her waterlogged dress dragged her down. She put a hand to her head, feeling the rushing blood, the jagged bone, the flare of fresh pain. She sobbed, couldn't breathe, lungs frozen in terror._ _

__The second blow took her life, leaving her locked in the darkness._ _

__He gathered Eliza Day into his arms and carried her as deeply into the river as he could. He let go of her body, letting it sink beneath the current and vanish. Then, he swam to the opposite side, washing his body and the rock free of her blood. He dropped the stone, abandoned it, and moved on without a backwards glance._ _

__—_ _

__Lucy came back to awareness with the icy grip of Eliza's life-threatening fear still clawing at her insides. She lurched up, nauseous with the emotions, the horror and head-splitting pain that Eliza had felt moments before her death. Lucy almost retched, but a warm hand rested on her back and rubbed evenly._ _

__Blinking, Lucy realized that Holly knelt beside her, looking on with concern. Though Lucy had lost consciousness near the riverbed, she was now stretched out on the ground within their protective circle of chains. Someone must have carried her, probably Lockwood. His heavy coat was draped over her to ward off shock and George's duffel, smelling faintly of fish and chips, was tucked as a pillow under her head. The boys had cast their silver net over the whole of the ground where she had fallen, not entirely sure which rock was the Source without her input. Eliza Day was gone._ _

__“Spearmint gum?” Holly offered. “Or chocolate?”_ _

__Lucy's mouth was filled with the copper tang of blood. “Gum,” she said shakily._ _

__Holly popped two tabs out of the pack, passed them over, and watched Lucy closely while she chewed._ _

__Realizing that she was awake, Lockwood bounded over. “Hey, you gave us a fright. Are you okay?”_ _

__Lucy nodded. “I put my hand on the Source,” she said. “I just wasn't expecting it.”_ _

__“I figured as much,” George said. He busily cleaned his glasses on his shirt to hide how worried for her he had been. “Don't suppose you can recall which rock it was?”_ _

__“Give her a minute, George,” Holly interrupted._ _

__Lucy twisted her fingers in Lockwood's coat before realizing that it was his and uncurling her grip. “I can show you now,” she said. “I want to get out of here.”_ _

__Lockwood nodded and accepted his coat back when she offered it. The night was cool and Lockwood was slender. Holly helped Lucy back to her feet and began packing up the circle of chains. Lucy paced back to where she had fallen, fighting the sick-cold that lined her stomach at the memories of Eliza's death. Touching a Source like that made Lucy feel everything the ghost had felt—every emotion, every thought, every agony, everything. She usually avoided Touching something if she could help it._ _

__“Luce?” Lockwood asked._ _

__Lucy shook herself and pointed. “It's that one.”_ _

__George bundled the Source up inside the silver net and jammed it into his pack. “Alright,” he said. “Let's get back. We have a long walk ahead of us.”_ _

__Lucy lingered, staring at the place on the other side of the dry riverbed where Eliza had been brutally struck down by the man she thought would be her first love. The memories of Eliza's adoration, her young lust, her sudden fear, the pain of her broken skull, washed through Lucy. At least she couldn't hear the bubbling creek any longer._ _

__“Luce?”_ _

__Picking up her satchel where she had dropped it when she Touched the stone, Lucy turned to face Lockwood. “Yeah?”_ _

__“Are you sure you're okay? Can you walk back?”_ _

__The Skull nattered about being dropped, complaining loudly._ _

__“I'm good,” Lucy assured her boss. “Besides, it's not as though I have much choice. You can't carry me back. We must have three miles to walk.”_ _

__Lockwood's brow furrowed._ _

__Lucy tapped the Skull's glass with a fingertip and muttered, “Sorry, but you could have warned me more than a second before I put my hand right on it.”_ _

__Lockwood followed Lucy away from the river. George took the lead, revitalized now that they were on their way home and there was the promise of post-case breakfast in his future. Lucy followed him and Holly followed her, prepared to step in if Lucy took a turn after Touching the Source so directly. Lockwood brought up the rear, watching over his team._ _

__…_ _

__Once they were back at 35 Portland Row with a very-early breakfast spread out in front of them, Lucy finally began to feel human again. She helped herself to a slice of toast slathered with butter and jam. The sugar went a long way towards making her feel better. Holly put some eggs and sausage links on her plate and offered the spoon to Lucy when she finished. Lucy added a large scoop and dug in. Lockwood sipped his tea and George shoveled in pastries._ _

__“Here's what I don't get,” George said around a mouthful of toast and jam, “is if Eliza Day was so old, why did she only speak in the lyrics of the song written about her urban legend?”_ _

__“Maybe the song was written by an agent,” Holly offered, “someone who heard Eliza singing and just piggybacked off her song.”_ _

__“But Type Ones repeat patterns,” George protested. “So the song would have already been written.”_ _

__“I don't think she was that old,” Lucy interjected. “Did any missing persons come up in that area while you were researching?”_ _

__George swallowed. “There was one, but it was less than fifteen years old and the girl was never found. I didn't think it was relevant to Eliza Day's murder.”_ _

__The eggs turned to ash in Lucy's mouth. “I don't think the ghost was Eliza Day at all,” she said. “I think it was the missing girl.”_ _

__“Eliza Day did look different than I expected for a centuries-old legend,” Holly mused. “Her dress and hairstyle, for one, are more modern.”_ _

__George rummaged through his file of research and produced a single Missing Person's flyer. Sure enough, the face of not-Eliza-Day smiled back at them. Her real name was Harriet Greaser. She had been last seen wearing her mother's best dress and sneaking off with a drifter. There was a reward for information leading to her safe return. No one had ever found anything out... until now._ _

__Lockwood nodded his agreement. “We should let DEPRAC know about this. They'll want to alert the girl's family.”_ _

__Despite the gnawing hole in Lucy's stomach, she pushed her plate away. “I'm beat,” she said with an exaggerated yawn. “I'm going to take a shower and go to bed.”_ _

__“Leave your plate,” George said. “I'll finish it.”_ _

__“Charming,” the Skull muttered at George. To Lucy, he said, “You look knackered. Why don't you let me out of here? I'll make you a nightcap and rub your back and—”_ _

__Lucy twisted the valve on the ghost's jar, stemming the flow of words from the protective silver-glass._ _

__Forcing a smile at her friends, Lucy departed the kitchen and let the door close behind her. She walked away, climbing the steps to her attic bedroom. Portland Row had belonged to Lockwood's deceased parents. He and George slept in the two main bedrooms, the third bedroom was closed off. Lucy didn't mind sleeping in the attic. It was quaint and cozy and had its own tilted bathroom so she didn't have to worry about sharing with George, but after a grueling case, she did always hate climbing the endless stairs. Resting her shoulder against the wall, she paused to catch her breath._ _

__“Luce?” Lockwood's voice startled her._ _

__Lucy snapped around to face him. “Yeah?”_ _

__“Are you okay?” Lockwood asked. He stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up where she had chosen to linger on the landing. Without his coat and with his tie loosened, he looked younger. His skin was the same white as his shirt, the pale fabric clinging to his chest and shoulders. “You're very pale.”_ _

__“I'm fine,” Lucy assured him. “You know how Touch takes it out of me.”_ _

__Lockwood nodded and started to climb the stairs after her._ _

__“I'm fine, really,” Lucy protested. “I need a shower and some sleep and I'll be fine.”_ _

__“I can send Holly up to check on you before she leaves,” Lockwood offered._ _

__Lucy fought her urge to bristle. “I'm fine, Lockwood,” she said firmly. “Okay, just let me get some sleep.”_ _

__He didn't respond._ _

__Lucy didn't really give him a chance to. She hurried up the stairs, shouldered into her room, and shut the door. Weaving between her mingled piles of already-washed and need-to-be-washed clothes, she sniffed at a soft cotton t-shirt and located a pair of flannel pajamas. Slithering into the shower, she stood there for a long time until the hot water had pounded away the phantom feelings of the rock splitting her skull and hot blood pouring down her face and into her mouth. She collapsed into bed and didn't wake until almost dinnertime.__

__XXX_ _

__(1) The murder of Eliza Day is an urban legend with a very cool song attached to it. Be sure to check out, 'Where the Wild Roses Grow' by Nick Cave featuring Kylie Minogue. I borrowed the lyrics for the ghost's speech._  
_

__Questions, comments, concerns?_ _


	2. The Night Visitor

Did you know there's actually such a thing as 'Boarding School Syndrome'? Apparently, it messes kids up right from the start.

XXX

_'A.J. Lockwood & Co. Investigators. After dark, please ring bell and wait behind the iron line.'_

Somehow, this seemed an impossible instruction for people once the sun went down. Though Portland Row was fringed with an iron fence and had a cracked iron walkway to the front door to ward off ghosts, there was no reason to give the wandering specters anything to hunger for. Yet prospective clients always rang the bell and then stood there on the porch, inches from the door, just begging to be ghost-touched.

Since Lucy had slept much of the morning, she roused at the first ring. Stifling a groan, she swung her feet out of bed, stuffed them into woolen socks, and padded downstairs to answer. She flipped on the crystal skull lamp on the sideboard, grabbed her rapier from the umbrella stand, and peered through the peephole.

“Who is it?” Lockwood asked, startling her. In his slippers, he had been silent on the stairs.

“Two young girls,” Lucy answered. “Looks like they've been awake for a week.”

“Let them in.”

Lucy nodded, undid the many locks and wards, and pulled open the front door. The two girls stood on the porch, clinging to each other, simpering. They looked like ghosts themselves. They were young, Lucy noticed, and it was odd for young people to come to psychic investigators. Ninety-nine percent of their clients were adults.

“Are you... Lockwood?” One of the girls asked in a frail voice.

Lucy gestured.

“I am,” Lockwood said. He dialed up his smile despite the late hour and the girls' ages. “Please, come in.”

Lucy left Lockwood to get them settled and put the kettle on in the kitchen. She prepped four cups of tea, two for herself and Lockwood and two for the clients. She doubted George would get up if he wasn't already and Holly didn't sleep here; she had her own apartment. While waiting for the kettle to whistle, Lucy arranged several different flavors of biscuits on a decorative plate. It felt good to do something with her hands and the girls looked about to die of fright. Once the water heated just to boiling, Lucy filled the mugs and carried the tray back to the parlor.

Lockwood had arranged the girls on the sofa with a thick afghan over their laps. He smiled when Lucy entered with the tea and quickly passed out the saucers. “Here you are,” he said lightly. He set the biscuit plate on the table after pushing aside some of George's research papers. “Have a sip and a biscuit. That's it.”

Lucy fetched her notepad and took up her usual seat beside Lockwood with her tea balanced on her knee.

Lockwood palmed his mug, looking at the two girls earnestly. “Now,” he said gently. “What brings you to our doorstep in the middle of the night?”

The first girl introduced herself as Fiona Belli, (1) thirteen years old. She was a wisp of a child on the cusp of puberty, all knobbly elbows and kneecaps. The largest thing about her was her absolute riot of golden curls and huge blue eyes. Currently, she was adorable, but in a year or two, when she grew into herself, she would be a knockout. She was wearing a pleated blue-and-purple skirt and white blouse under a thick jacket. Her nails and cuticles were bitten red and bloody.

The second was Jennifer Brown (2). At ten years old, she was as thin and nervous as an alley cat. Wearing a thick green jumper that swam on her body with her dirty blond hair pulled severely back from her face in a tight bun, she gripped Fiona's hand tightly and trembled. Her face was gaunt like a skeleton's and she busily gnawed her lower lip. When she reached for her tea, her sleeve rode up and revealed a circle of bruises. She was quick to tug the fabric back down over her hands.

Lockwood noticed immediately and leaned forward to offer honey for their tea. At sixteen, his handsome megawatt smile flustered Fiona and didn't mean much to young Jennifer.

“Please,” Fiona said urgently. “You have to help us.”

“Slow down,” Lockwood said. “Tell me what happened.”

“We board at the Ragged School (3),” Fiona explained, “but at night, you can't sleep for all the screaming.”

Lucy's eyes lingered on Jennifer's hidden wrists.

Fiona, aware of Lucy and Lockwood staring, squeezed Jennifer close. “It's spirits, miss,” she said.

“They used to go to our school,” Jennifer managed. “But they died and they never left. They scream up and down the hallways all night, every night.”

“Do the teachers know about this?” Lockwood asked. “The headmistress?”

Jennifer nodded.

“Headmistress keeps saying she'll call someone,” Fiona said.

Lockwood didn't want to make this case all about money, but he did have a business to run. “Is there a reason she didn't come to us herself?”

Lucy wanted to ask, 'Or why you ran here in the middle of the night through ghost-ridden London?' but she held her tongue.

“Headmistress can't admit that there's spirits,” Fiona explained. “They'd pull all the funding and then the school would have to close. We'd be out on the streets.”

“Again,” Jennifer whimpered.

Lockwood's lips pinched. So much of London was infested with ghosts since the Problem's advent over fifty years ago that such an excuse didn't make any sense. No one would look down on a business or building because they needed it cleared of ghosts. His eyes strayed back to Jennifer's hidden bruise. “I tell you what,” he offered finally. “How about you spend the night here and then we'll walk you back to school in the morning? We can meet with your headmistress then and discuss what's going on.”

Jennifer was already shaking her head before he finished. “No, sir,” she answered. “We snuck out to see you but we have to get back or else there's—”

Fiona nudged her. “Please, sir,” she implored. “Won't you stop by and see the headmistress? Please help us.”

Lockwood stared at them, troubled. “Of course,” he said finally. “We'll stop by in the morning, alright?”

Fiona quickly finished her tea and scarfed a biscuit.

Jennifer didn't eat anything, though she did empty her honeyed mug.

“Thank you, sir,” Fiona said eagerly. “You mustn't tell Headmistress that we came to see you.”

“Your secret's safe with me,” Lockwood promised after only a heartbeat of hesitation.

The two girls slipped from beneath the blanket. Jennifer took a moment to even fold it and Fiona stood watching her, blue eyes flickering like lamps.

Lucy walked them to the door. Down the lane, she could see a specter lurking. “Lockwood,” she said.

He joined them in the threshold, glanced at the spirit, and then hesitated. “You're sure you can't stay? It isn't safe.”

“It isn't safe anywhere,” Fiona murmured.

“I can see them,” Jennifer said and she gripped Fiona's hand, “and we run fast.”

“But,” Lucy protested.

“Thank you for the tea,” Fiona said, “and for your time.”

Jennifer turned her big dark eyes on them. “Please come tomorrow.”

With that, the two girls stepped over the iron line hand-in-hand, let themselves out the gate, and took off running. Within seconds they had disappeared as securely as any ghost. Lucy started to close the door, but Lockwood was frozen in the way.

“Should we go after them?” Lucy asked him.

“We wouldn't catch them,” Lockwood said. He shook himself and got out of the way so she could close the door. He paced back to the living room and picked up Lucy's notepad, but her notes were sparse. He looked at the virtually-untouched plate of cookies and took one for himself.

“What are you thinking?” Lucy asked.

“That something isn't right,” Lockwood remarked.

“We can't investigate if they won't let us,” Lucy said.

“I know, but...” Lockwood nibbled the biscuit. “We can still stop by.”

Lucy nodded, cleaned up the mugs, and carried everything back to the kitchen. The dinner dishes were dry in the rack, but it would be too noisy to put them away now. The Skull in its jar was glowing malevolently on the counter, boggling grouchily at Lucy through the glass. Since the jar was tightly closed, she couldn't hear its complaints, but she was sure it was upset that she hadn't brought it up to her room with her as she usually did. Their table, with its scribbled-upon Thinking Cloth, seemed to glow in the moonlight.

“You saw her wrist, didn't you, Luce?”

“I did.”

Lockwood's dark eyes were far-seeing. “It might not be just ghosts screaming in that school.”

…

The next morning, Lockwood gave Holly and George the rundown on the events of the night. Holly looked as sad and concerned as Lucy felt, but on her, the expression was graceful. Lucy had spied her reflection in the Skull's silver-glass dome that morning and realized she looked like she'd sucked a lemon. After that, she made an effort to smooth her brow. George wanted to to head right off to the archives to start researching.

“Not yet,” Lockwood told him. “We don't even know if this is a case we can work on. Let's not waste resources.”

“Do you think the Headmistress will let us in?” Holly asked.

“I'm going to try very hard not to give her a choice,” Lockwood answered.

After a light breakfast, neither Lucy nor Lockwood felt much like eating and Holly followed their example, they prepared to go. Lockwood had donned his usual suit, the starched shirt and simple tie almost hidden under his long coat. Holly wore a lovely dress, her boots polished to a shine, her springy dark hair restrained under a matching scarf. George's sagging trousers were secured with a belt and he put on a fresh t-shirt. For her part, Lucy had already picked out her best leggings, skirt, and favorite shirt for emotional support. Everyone strapped on their work belts and rapiers. It was about as professional as they had a chance of looking.

Lockwood hailed a cab and they squeezed in.

Soon, they were dropped off before the towering edifice of the Ragged School. On a well-tended street along the Regent's Canal, the three-story gray brick building was like a fly in the ointment. Though a testament to old architecture, it was truly ugly, sandwiched against both the street and the canal with iron bars on every window and the exposed wood mildewed from years of neglect. The sprawling building had three front doors, all as unwelcoming at the last, all once painted black but now peeling.

Lockwood and Co stood together for a moment, looking up at it.

There was movement in one of the third floor windows. A child peeked out and then disappeared.

Habitually, they all used their Talents, but the sun was up and ghosts were weak now. There wasn't so much as a flicker of unease in the air, save Lucy's own pounding heart and tight gut from the memory of Fiona's and Jennifer's worried little faces.

Lockwood paid the cabbie, crossed the street, and rang the bell once, then twice.

Finally, there was the sound of countless locks being turned and then the door pulled open to reveal a tall birdlike woman with piercing eyes and long wavy hair. She wore a fitted purple dress with stained white apron tied over that and there was a single child clinging to her skirt.

“Can I help you?” she asked without opening the door completely.

Lockwood cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said and introduced himself and his team.

“Agents?” she asked. “But I haven't...”

“Might we come in?” Lockwood asked. “We'd like to take a look around. A few of your neighbors were concerned.”

The lie was small and would be easily discovered if this woman had more than a passing conversation with her neighbors, but judging by the neglect of the Ragged School when compared to the rest of the street, it was probably a safe lie. Sure enough, the woman's pinched face went pale and she opened the door fully.

“I'm Headmistress Alessa Gillespie (4),” the woman said and absently batted the child off her skirt with a pass of her hand.

The little urchin skittered away immediately, disappearing back up the dim hallway.

“So,” Alessa said uneasily. “You must have heard about our... problems...”

“We'd like to hear it from you,” Lockwood said. “Is there someplace we can sit down?”

Alessa nodded, beckoned them to follow, and led them deep into the recesses of the school. Lucy kept track of the turns they took and she could sense Lockwood doing the same. Holly took stock of the portraits on the walls, her hands clasped politely at her waist. George kept taking his glasses off and cleaning them. Finally, Alessa opened a heavy dark wood door into her office. There was a large heavy desk with a massive window at its back. Children's artwork was taped to the off-white walls. In the sudden bright light, Lucy realized that Alessa was quite young, but her face was prematurely lined with age.

Lockwood and Holly sat in the two wilted chairs before her desk while Lucy stood at their shoulders. George casually wandered the room, looking at the oddities on the shelves and taking note of where the files were stored in case they needed to find something out. Holly removed a notebook from her satchel and sat up straight, prepared to listen.

“I'm glad you're here,” Alessa said once she had sank behind her desk.

Lucy couldn't hide her surprise.

Alessa folded her thin hands on her desk. “What do you know already?”

“Consider us a blank slate,” Lockwood told her. “Please, just tell us everything from the top.”

Alessa sighed heavily and smoothed absently at the blotter on her desk. “Where can I begin?” she said lowly. “I'm sure you know what it's like for children in these trying times. Every one of you is forced to grow up too fast, if you're able to grow up at all.”

Lucy's stomach twisted with the memory of her first teammates, all brutally ghost-touched during a case. It was that event that had seen her leave behind her childhood home, make her way to London, and throw in her cards with Lockwood. He was a good leader. What he lacked in experience he made up for with drive and sensitivity.

“This school was opened to try to give children a safe place where no one would take advantage of them, whether they have Talents or not,” Alessa continued. “We teach, clothe, house, and feed whoever we can. We're always at capacity. Lately...” She rubbed her face. Makeup sloughed from beneath her eyes, revealing dark circles. “We have children from the Night Watch here,” she explained. “They laid down some rudimentary wards, but it doesn't seem to be helping any longer.”

“Helping with what?” Lockwood asked.

“The screaming,” Alessa told him. “All night, someone is screaming. We can't figure out where it's coming from.”

“You said children from the Night Watch stay here sometimes,” Lockwood said. “What about agents?”

Alessa shook her head. “Agents are mostly able to support themselves, as I'm sure you know. It's the children from the Night Watch, the children who can't find work, and the children without Talents that mostly live here.”

“What about adults?”

“There are a few,” Alessa said. “Myself, the custodian, the teachers, the cooks, a few others.”

“Does everyone hear the screaming?”

“Not everyone,” Alessa said. “But those who don't hear a voice instead hear running, heavy footsteps, banging, creaking, knocking. This place is never quiet at night.” She noticed that she was smudging her makeup and lowered her hands. “The screaming is the worst.”

“Do you hear it?”

“Not every night,” Alessa said, “but sometimes. I usually hear creaking and squeaking.”

It was odd, Lucy thought, for children without the rare Talent of Listening to be able to hear the screams. It was even odder for adults, who would have lost all Talent, to hear a voice. Usually a ghost threatened the living with a variety of household sounds. Knocking, banging, tapping, or otherwise were very common, but a voice...

“Does the screaming always come from the same location?” Lockwood asked.

“It doesn't seem to come from any one location,” Alessa said. “It sounds like it's coming from everywhere at once. But one of the Night Watch told me it seems to start on the second floor in the science classroom and spread up into the third floor dormitories.”

“What about this floor, the first floor?” Holly asked.

“We believe the proximity to running water keeps the spirits at bay. Most everyone is sleeping in the cafeteria these days, but there isn't enough space for everyone. Some children are still trying to sleep in their rooms and some adults for that matter. The custodian, Charles Darby, still sleeps upstairs in his room. He said he doesn't hear anything but the sounds of an old building settling.”

Holly jotted notes, nodding.

“When did this start?” Lockwood asked.

“It was just a few months ago,” Alessa told him. “Up until then, there was nothing out of the ordinary here.”

“Is there a reason you haven't contacted any of the agencies?” Lockwood asked finally.

Alessa looked embarrassed. “I... I know I should've but... the spirits aren't threatening anyone. No one's been hurt,” she explained. “And all the money we get goes to food and clothes. There just haven't been the funds to pay for an agency like Fittes or Rotwell.”

Lockwood was silent for a moment, glancing over his shoulder at Lucy and George.

Alessa fiddled with a pen on her desk. “I understand if you can't help us—”

“We'll take the case,” Lockwood said to her. “But we'll need you to clear out the upper floors while we investigate. Even if the ghosts haven't been dangerous, they might hurt someone while we're searching for their Sources. Everyone needs to fit inside the cafeteria. We'll fortify the area with iron and salt and you won't be able to come out until morning.”

Alessa was too surprised to protest. After a moment, her face broke out in a smile that made her appear ten years younger. “Yes, of course,” she said. “I will, of course, pool all the funds we can spare. We're so grateful.”

Lockwood flashed her his winning smile. “We're a smaller agency so we don't have the overhead of Fittes and Rotwell,” he said. “We can make this work.”

“The children will appreciate it,” Alessa said. “Oh, my gosh. It will be wonderful for the Night Watch children to get a full night's sleep again.”

“We'll start making arrangements,” Lockwood told her. We'll need to step out, research, stock up on supplies, but we'll be back before nightfall.”

“Would you like to have dinner with us?” Alessa offered. “It would give you an opportunity to speak with some of the children who have heard the screaming more directly.”

“That would be great,” George said, delighted by the prospect of free food.

Lockwood glanced at him sidelong. “That would be helpful,” he said.

Alessa shook his hand eagerly. The dour stretched-too-thin quality of her face had changed. She looked warm and motherly now, the purple of her dress bringing out the highlight in her eyes and the natural waves to her shiny chestnut hair. “I'll walk you out and see you tonight.”

Lockwood chatted with her while they walked.

Trailing behind, Lucy took the opportunity to stop and Listen, stretching out her senses. She didn't hear anything, not even an echo. She would have liked a second opinion from the Skull, but she had left it at Portland Row until they knew for sure they had the case. At the top of the stairs, a few children peered down at her. They didn't appear older than four or five, though Lucy was bad at judging such things. Lucy waved at them, but they pushed away from the railing and disappeared.

Alessa bid farewell and closed the peeling black door.

Lockwood waited until they were all safely tucked into another cab before opening the discussion. “What do you think?”

“I think you're barmy to sign us up to risk life and limb when we're not getting paid,” George began, but there was a joke in his voice. A moment later he assured Lockwood, “We need to help them. They're trying to do some good around here and that's not easy.”

“There are lots of children who can benefit from the work of the Ragged School,” Holly added. “We all have heard stories of children—Night Watch, agents, or otherwise—going out onto the street and just disappearing. We owe it to them to make these places safe.”

Lucy was quiet, thinking of the hollow faces that had stared at them from the windows when they departed.

“Luce?” Lockwood asked.

She turned away from the window, where she had been watching the sad iron-barred building diminish. “Let's get started,” she said.

George didn't get out of the cab when it reached 35 Portland Row. Instead, he let it drop off the others and then headed for the library. He would research the Ragged School while they others prepared their supplies for the night. “Pack me a sandwich or two,” he called. “I'll meet you there at five.”

“Got it,” Holly said.

Lucy waved as the cab pulled away.

Lockwood unlocked the front door and beckoned the girls in after him. Holly immediately headed into the kitchen to start prepping snacks for the night. Lockwood headed into their basement office to let off some steam practicing fencing on their two straw dummies dubbed Floating Joe and Esmeralda. For her part, Lucy opened the lever on the top of the Skull's jar. It was better to get his complaints out of the way now, rather than wait until they were at the Ragged School.

XXX

(1) Fiona Belli is the protagonist from one of my absolute favorite PS2 survival horror games, Haunting Ground. Anyone who is familiar with Fiona will see why this description of her is kind of hilarious.

(2) Jennifer is the protagonist of the controversial video game, Rule of Rose. If you haven't played it, don't, because the combat is really broken in a bad way. Just watch the cutscenes on Youtube. It's incredibly atmospheric, very sad, and quite dark.

(3) The Ragged School is an actual school in London. I tried to do some research into its gruesome history as it's one of the Most Haunted Schools in England [now turned into a museum], but nothing concrete came up. Either way, it was a school opened for the purpose of giving free education and housing to poor children. I looked at it on Google maps and it certainly looks haunted.

(4) Hell, let's just go for it. If you're a horror fan, you know Silent Hill and if you know Silent Hill, you know Alessa Gillespie.

Questions, comments, concerns?


	3. The Screaming School

I've almost written this story to completion. I'm really just waiting for the mood to strike to write the final chapter and, looking back, it is amazing how much the original idea changed on me [along with the length]. I originally set out to write something within the vein of an old-fashioned 'Dozier's School for Boys' kind of vibe with all the ghosts being firmly in the past. However, if Lockwood and Co taught us anything, it was that humans were the real monsters all along.

XXX

Since they were trying to keep costs low, Lockwood, Lucy, and Holly didn't call a Night Cab to head back to the Ragged School. Instead, they hefted their supplies and walked to the bus stop. The fare was significantly lower, even if it was a less dignified way to travel. Luckily, the stop was nearer to the Ragged School than to Portland Row and they didn't have far to walk once they arrived. Walking up the street, passed the little shops and apartments, the school was even more unsightly than before.

Lucy dropped her duffel at the base of the steps with a groan. The Skull was a solid weight in her backpack, silent now that he had gotten his comments about the school out of the way. Holly did the same, rolling her tight shoulders. Lockwood had carried George's bag in addition to his own, but set them down lightly. Then, he stood with his hand perched casually on his rapier as he looked up at the towering building. Being a few minutes early, they waited there for George to arrive from his research trip.

A few minutes after five, another bus rumbled by and George came puffing down the street, his arms filled to bursting with photocopies. He stopped beside them, adjusted his dangerous stack, fixed his glasses, and panted for breath.

“Good of you to join us, George,” Holly remarked.

“I'm like three minutes late,” he retorted. “Besides, you'll be grateful when you see what I've learned.”

“We'll look at it after dinner,” Lockwood told them. “Let's go ahead in and talk to everyone while we can. We'll split up and then compare notes when we head upstairs to begin our investigation.” He rang the bell twice and stepped back while they waited for Alessa or someone else to answer.

The peeling black door was opened by a Night Watch kid that they recognized from the Kensal Green Cemetery case. Lucy's memory of dealing with him wasn't a pleasant one. By the scowl that twitched the edge of Lockwood's mouth and the way George vigorously polished his glasses, she imagined their remembrance was the same. Holly, however, smiled grandly and the little turnip positively beamed at her.

“Evening,” he said by way of greeting.

“Hello,” Holly said and glanced curiously at her companions when they didn't speak. “We're here to investigate. Headmistress Gillespie is expecting us.”

The kid's gaze flit over them and he said, “Brought the crack team, eh?”

Holly's delicate brow lifted. “Excuse me?”

“Right this way, miss,” the kid said to Holly. “I'll show you to the mess hall. We're just sitting down for supper.” He grinned, showing the gap in his teeth. “You're welcome to sit with me if you like.”

Lucy caught Holly's elbow and hissed, “Don't sit with him.”

“You owe me an explanation,” Holly whispered back.

Lucy wrinkled her nose.

Alessa saw them enter and hurried over to greet them. “Welcome back,” she said cheerfully. “I've gathered all the children who have the most details on the hauntings at one table so you can make the best use of your time before nightfall.”

“Thank you,” Lockwood said.

Alessa ushered them to a section of the long family-style tables where several children of varying ages were seated patiently before cartons of milk. Alessa introduced them one by one, but Lucy lost track of their names halfway. She instead scanned the other tables. For so many children to be crammed into one room, it was surprisingly quiet and orderly. It looked as though each table was called up individually to received dinner on steel trays dished out by two women in matching aprons and hair nets. Then, they sat together and ate quietly. All looked thin and tired.

Lucy spotted Fiona and Jennifer seated at different tables elsewhere in the cafeteria. Fiona's blond hair was tangled and Jennifer had a new bruise around her eye. Neither girl looked up at Lucy, though they surely recognized her and Lockwood.

George elbowed Lucy. “That's right,” he was saying, “Lucy is a spot on Listener. There's no way she won't hear the screams if they're as loud as you say.”

Lucy forced a smile. “Right,” she agreed and tried to focus on the conversation at hand. There would be time later to speak with Fiona and Jennifer. Lucy quickly took her seat beside Holly and leaned in to whisper, “Sorry. What did I miss?”

Holly angled her notepad so Lucy could read.

“It's Bloody Fingers,” one of the children told Lockwood urgently. His lack of front teeth gave him a hard lisp. “I 'ear 'im moaning and whinging in the 'allways at night. I 'eard 'e cut off 'im fingers in the science lab.”

“Don't be daft, Davey,” a girl responded. She twisted her hair around her finger and then pushed it into her mouth. “It's Screaming Martha.”

“Martha was a vicious nun who ran the joint back in the 1890s,” another boy continued more matter-of-factly. “She fell down the stairs and broke her neck.”

“Chasing kids,” the lisper said. “She 'ad a mean ole ruler as a weapon.”

“Screaming Martha's always been here,” another girl protested. “This screaming ghost is new. It has to be Clara.”

There was a flicker of silence between the arguing kids.

Lockwood zeroed in on it even as they tried to change the subject back to Screaming Martha and Bloody Fingers. “Amy,” he said to the girl. “Tell me again. Who's Clara?”

“Well, um,” the girl mumbled around her hair. “You see, Clara was pretty like a princess. She used to live here 'til she didn't... I've seen her in the hallway and the bathroom, always crying. Her pjs are all bloody.”

Lockwood turned to the lisper. “Have you seen Clara?”

“No,” Davey muttered.

“Clara was older,” the smarty-pants added. “She was fifteen when she died.”

“What happened to her, Marvin?” Lockwood asked.

“I heard she jumped from the roof and into the canal,” the second girl said. She kept her hands under the table, out of view.

Lockwood looked to each child individually, giving them each a moment to speak. He was collected and patient. For her part, Lucy wanted to reach across the table and smack the hair out of the little girl's mouth, but that was why Lockwood was in charge and she wasn't.

Finally, the hair-chewer put in, “Mr Darby liked Clara. They were friends.”

“Old man Darby was mad when she died,” one boy said.

“He was mad?” Lockwood asked.

Alessa called their table for dinner, breaking off the conversation as the children eagerly bounded up to the line. Lockwood and Co fell in behind them, watching as a large scoop of mystery meat and dry mashed potatoes were plopped onto the useful steel trays. Holly grabbed a spork for everyone and they followed the children back to their table. Alessa and the adults were the last to grab something to eat. They all sat together at a table in the corner, watchful eyes turned out over the large room.

Lucy poked at what was supposed to be meatloaf with her spork. Holly artfully pushed a tidbit from one corner of the tray to the other. Even George was reluctant to dig in. Lockwood ignored his meal completely in favor of continuing his conversation.

Lockwood leaned over his tray, elbows propped on the table. “Tell me more about Clara,” he said lowly.

“We don't talk 'bout Clara much,” the lisper mumbled. “Mr Darby gets mad.”

“He gets angry at you? Why?” Lockwood asked.

“Clara died before her time,” the smart boy put in, “at least, that's what he says.”

“He's not wrong,” the hair-chewer added, though she had stopped gnawing her stringy hair in favor of eating her mystery food.

“Thanks,” Lockwood said. “You've been a big help. Does anyone want my potatoes? I'm just stuffed.”

The kids clamored for Lockwood's untouched meal. Lucy, George, and Holly were quick to follow suit.

“Don't look now,” the Skull said suddenly, “But I feel a bad moon rising.”

Lucy immediately looked around.

“I said not to look!” the Skull protested.

“What's the bad moon?” Lucy whispered to the Skull. Nothing in the crowded cafeteria jumped out at her as being particularly loathsome or suspicious. Honestly, everyone just looked exhausted from their impossible nights of screaming and no sleep. “If you're just trying to wind me up, I'll drop you in the canal.”

“So nasty to me!” the Skull said shrilly. “And I'm only trying to help you.”

Lucy huffed, continuing to scan her surroundings.

Lockwood caught her looking and flicked his eyes to the Skull hidden in her bag.

She nodded.

Lockwood turned in his seat and started looking to, peering with his Sight even though the sun was still up.

“There,” the Skull hissed. “Isn't he just dreadful?”

Lucy could only assume that the Skull was talking about the custodian. Mr Charles Darby was old and stooped, his back bent almost double. His skin was as limp and drippy as a soup chicken. Wiry tufts of white hair sprouted from his chin, nose, and ears. He shuffled between the rows of tables, stacking up the steel trays as children finished. Then, he headed into the kitchen, presumably to wash dishes.

“That's Mr Darby,” one of the girls confirmed.

“Thank you,” Lockwood said.

Personally, Lucy thought the two middle-aged ladies in hairnets and stained aprons were more sinister, especially considering what they had served for dinner.

Having finished her supper, Alessa bustled over to their table with a smile. “Is there anyone else you'd like to talk to? Or any questions the faculty can answer?”

“No, thank you,” Lockwood answered. “We'd like everyone to take what they need from the upper floors. We'll be cordoning them off and barricading you all down here while we look into the disturbances.”

“Of course,” Alessa agreed. “But, just so you know, Mr Darby has refused to leave his room. He won't come out, but he'll be up there with you.”

“As long as he understands not to come out,” Lockwood said, “it shouldn't be a problem. We'll just ward off his door.”

While Lockwood and Alessa hacked out the fine details of the night's investigation, Lucy wanted to speak with Jennifer and Fiona. Under the guise of delivering their trays back to the kitchen, she took the long way around the large hall. A few children stopped to marvel at her rapier and work belt, having never seen an agent up close before. Lucy did her best to escape their grubby fingers as politely as possible.

Fiona spotted her, quickly rose from the table, and bustled away.

“Fiona, wait!” Lucy protested as loudly as she dared.

However, the girl quickly left the cafeteria and was gone without even finishing her dinner. Turning to look for Jennifer, Lucy discovered that the younger child had also disappeared. They had given her the slip and they didn't even really know that she was planning to speak to them. It was odd to say the least, especially considering they had braved the ghost-infested nighttime hours to get help. Lucy delivered the dirty trays she had accumulated by that time and returned to where Lockwood was gathering up their bags.

“We have about an hour of sunlight left,” Lockwood told her when she rejoined the group. “I'd like to take a look at everything upstairs before we get started.”

“And I'll set your minds at ease about Screaming Martha and Bloody Fingers,” George said.

“What about Clara?” Holly asked.

George removed his glasses and polished the lenses. “I don't really have any good news about her,” was all he said.

…

The classrooms were all on the second floor. There were four moderately-sized rooms for writing, reading, science, and math. The classrooms were kind of clustered in the middle of the hallway while two bathrooms—one for boys and one for girls—hunkered at each end. Showers were included in both, though the stalls were crowded together and separated with simply opaque plastic sheets. Towels were draped over every available surface to dry, but other than that, they were more orderly than George's bathroom—which Holly wasted no time pointing out.

They split up and took readings of the temperature and general ambiance in each classroom. Nothing popped out. Holly and Lucy checked the girls' bathrooms while Lockwood and George checked the boys' respectively. Again, there was nothing unusual except maybe the cleanliness.

“I get it, Lockwood,” George groused when they came out. “I'll clean up the bathroom.”

Holly and Lucy giggled together.

“Anything?” Lockwood asked.

“A slight drop in temperature at the top of the stairs on that side,” Lucy said.

“That would be Screaming Martha,” George told them. He removed his glasses and wiped them.

“And another low point in the science classroom,” Holly reminded them.

“That's Bloody Fingers.”

“Anything from our friend?” Lockwood asked Lucy.

“Tell him not to call me his friend or I'll pickle him in a jar like this,” the Skull muttered. “See how he likes it.”

“Nothing,” Lucy said rather than go into it.

“Right,” Lockwood remarked. “Nothing unexpected. Shall we head up?”

They split up, each tackling the readings of one of the twin staircases that led to the third floor. Again, there was a drop in temperature to account for Screaming Martha, but nothing else. However, once they reached the third floor dormitories, that all changed. Iron and salt littered the hardwood floor. Iron lines had been drawn across each of the six room thresholds. While each room was packed to the brim with low dressers and iron bunk beds, the ceiling was hung wildly with silver charms, ghost wards, and dried lavender.

“Where do the adults sleep?” Holly asked.

“They have a separate dorm,” Lockwood explained. “Alessa said that the little building next door, the one that used to be a house, belongs to the Ragged School too. That's where the faculty all stays.”

“Only the children stay here?” Lucy murmured. “Alone with the ghosts?”

“Just like you,” the Skull said flatly.

Lucy jostled her pack.

“Easy on the goods, love!” the Skull protested.

They took brief readings, winding between the countless neatly-made beds and fluffed pillows. A few children had left meager belongings on their beds, anything from stuffed animals to a rusted rapier with a broken blade. A few mattresses were stripped bare and stained from bed-wetting, others had dark smudges of old blood in key places.

“Do you think...?” George began, taking the temp above one such mattress.

Lucy and Holly eyed the stains and then shook their heads.

“Puberty,” Holly told the boys. “I don't think that's the cause of any of this.”

“I disagree,” muttered the Skull.

Each makeshift dorm was packed with bunks in full use, but nothing spiked either their readings or their Talents. Maybe it was the precautions that the Night Watch kids had taken or maybe it was just because the sun was still up. Either way, they still had George's information to go over.

“Let's go back downstairs and set up a circle inside one of the classrooms,” Lockwood said. “We can have a cup of tea while George tells us what he found.”

They all trooped back downstairs and made their haven in the math classroom. George began to arrange his papers on the teacher's desk, taking far too much delight in doing so. Lockwood lit his lamp and turned it on low while Holly readied the electric kettle for tea. Lucy opened her backpack and stared down at the Skull's goggling green face.

“Anything?” she asked.

“Just that thing behind you!”

Lucy closed her pack on the Skull without looking.

“You're no fun,” the Skull muttered. “I'm just trying to lighten the mood.”

Lockwood finished making the circle of chains and dragged some chairs into it. Holly passed out tea and then took her seat.

George cleared his throat. “Attention class!” he said.

“Luce, Holly, how are you two doing?” Lockwood asked. “Feel anything?”

Holly shook her head.

“Mr Lockwood, it's my turn to talk now,” George said with authority.

Lockwood glowered at him.

“I've always wanted to say that,” George said.

“Just get on with it before it gets dark,” Lucy told him.

“Right,” George said. “So you've already heard about Bloody Fingers and the kid about covered it. This Ragged School was opened in 1882 and Mark Hamil aka Bloody Fingers immediately christened it by accidentally cutting off his fingers. What the kid didn't mention was that the unfortunate Mr Hamil was working here after dark, building desks before the school opened, when he hurt himself and therefore no one was around to offer medical assistance after he did so. He bled out and wasn't found until the next morning.”

“Ugh,” said Holly.

“What did he cut his fingers off with?” Lucy asked. “I didn't think they had power tools back then.”

“That's where you'd be wrong,” George told her. “Power saws were invented in the early 1800s and were very common place in mills. By the time this school opened, it wouldn't be unusual for a groundskeeper to have one on site. Mr Hamil was cutting down some trees and thought he'd used the leftover lumber to make desks. Just goes to show you, recycling kills.”

Holly rolled her eyes.

George paused to have a sip of tea. “Next up, Screaming Sister Martha,” he said. “Martha McCready ran the Ragged School until her untimely demise in 1899. From what I read, she was a real taskmaster and did threaten children with a stick. It's unknown if she was chasing anyone as the time, but she took a tumble down the stairs and broke her neck. Her ghost was sighted off and on for years even before the Problem. Apparently if you're quiet and polite, she'll just leave you alone. She only goes after bad children.”

“Define bad,” Lucy said.

“We'll leave that up to you, Luce,” George said cheekily. “If anyone can get her to show herself, I'm sure its you and that moldy skull.”

“What about Clara?” Lockwood asked.

George's demeanor sobered. “Clara Odinson died recently, just last year.”

Holly stifled a little gasp.

“I found her obituary,” George said and passed around a copy of a clipped article. “She was only fifteen.”

Lucy accepted the copy from Lockwood when he finished reading the brief paragraph. The sight of the girl's smiling face tightened in her chest. Clara had been a pretty young girl, though the black and white image made it hard to tell what color her hair or eyes had been. From what Lucy could tell, she'd had a beautiful smile and a light dusting of freckles on her nose. “What happened to her?”

“She jumped off the roof of the building and into the canal where she hit her head and drowned,” George said.

“Suicide?” Lockwood asked.

“Looks that way.”

Lockwood heaved out a big breath and dragged a hand through his flop of dark hair.

“What I want to know,” Holly said, “is why all this started just a few months ago if Clara has been dead for over a year.”

“That's an excellent question to which I do not have the answer,” George said as he gathered all his papers back up.

“We'll find out,” Lockwood said. “We'll find her Source and put her to rest. If we figure out what's keeping Screaming Martha and Bloody Fingers here as well, even better.” He polished off his tea and put down his cup. “The sun's gone down. Let's pair off and take a lap through these two floors. Later on, we'll go together to the section where the adults sleep. Holly and George, you take this floor. Luce, you and I will go up to the third.”

Lucy downed her tea and shrugged her pack onto her shoulders.

Holly and George hung back a moment to clean up the remnants of their tea.

Lucy followed Lockwood up the stairs to the third floor. At the top of the hallway, they both stopped. Lockwood Looked and Lucy Listened, but the building was quiet so far. Moonlight was already streaming in through the big windows. The air smelled faintly of lavender, mostly of iron and dirty laundry. They began a slow circuit through the maze of bunk beds, checking their readouts and using their Talents frequently.

“Lockwood?” Lucy asked after they cleared the final room.

“Hmm?”

“I tried to talk to Jennifer and Fiona again,” Lucy said, “but they... it was almost like they ran away from me.”

Lockwood paused and looked at her. “They must be nervous,” he said finally. “They weren't supposed to bring us in. Maybe they're just lying low. We'll try to talk to them tomorrow, okay?”

“Jennifer had a new bruise on her face.”

Lockwood stilled. “We'll talk to them tomorrow, Luce,” he promised. “It isn't safe right now with the ghosts around. Let's focus on Clara.”

Lucy nodded. The kind of conversation she had a feeling they would be having with Jennifer needed to be had alone, outside the range of prying eyes. If someone was hurting Jennifer, there was a reason she hadn't told any of the adults around her. It would take more time then they had in a ghost-ridden night.

“Hear anything?” Lockwood asked.

“No, nothing,” Lucy told him when they completed their second circuit of the dorms. “Skull?”

“I was napping. What do you want?” the Skull grumbled.

“Nothing,” Lucy told Lockwood. “He fell asleep.”

“He sleeps?” Lockwood asked.

The Skull made a grouchy noise.

“Let's regroup with the others and then we'll go check out the adults' apartments.”

Lockwood and Lucy made their way carefully down the stairs, being mindful of Screaming Martha, but there was no sign of her. By the look on George and Holly's face, they hadn't seen Bloody Fingers either. Together, they trooped back to the first floor and headed outside. Lucy could see a warm glow coming from the cafeteria where all the children and adults were bedded down for the night. A ghost lamp sputtered at the end of the block. They let themselves into the little building beside the Ragged School by way of the peeling black door. It was still had the footprint of a house with a its small kitchen, cluttered living room with a sad sunken couch, an older television set, and several bedrooms upstairs. Light showed under one door.

To be polite, Holly called out, “Mr Darby, it's Lockwood and Co. We're here to investigate. We'll be warding your door so just stay in your room.”

There was the sound of the television being turned up.

George shrugged. “Guess he really doesn't care.”

They scanned the small house with their Talents and then took readings. There was nothing unusual on anyone's radars.

“Maybe we should check the roof,” George suggested, “since that's where she jumped from.”

“Shh,” Lucy said suddenly. “Do you hear that?”

There was a low moan coming from downstairs.

Lucy quickly said as much.

Lockwood drew his rapier and advanced down the stairs with Lucy behind him, Holly behind her, and George bringing up the rear. They stacked out in the living room, scanning for signs of the ghost. Lucy opened her bag so the Skull could see and strained her Talent. The moan remained low and tight, pained. It was coming from the living room, but there was no sign of a spirit. It rose slightly in pitch and then faded away.

“It stopped,” Lucy said after a moment of silence in which the moaning did not return. “It's gone. Did you see anything?”

Lockwood shook his head. “Let's go back.”

They walked back outside and into the Ragged School again. The first floor was dark and quiet, save a light chattering coming from the mess hall. Lockwood led everyone up the stairs to the second floor. Once they reached the top, Lucy paused, her fingers curled lightly around the railing.

“Do you hear something?” Holly asked.

“I do,” Lucy murmured. “Someone's crying.”

Soft sobs were filtering through the hallway. They were weak sounds, whimpers and sniffles of a young child in pain. Lucy pricked her ears, Listening, trying to pinpoint the source of the sound. It seemed to be coming from upstairs in the dorms. However, the sobs were cut short as they suddenly transformed into an ear-splitting wail.

The screaming had started.

Holly clapped her hands over her ears and George gritted his teeth. Lucy's eyes watered while Lockwood drew his rapier and turned to try to locate the source.

The screams were loud and shrill, agonized like someone being torn apart. Pounding footsteps raced overhead on the third floor, thundered down the steps, and tore right passed them. The screaming remained exactly as it was, unmoving even with the footsteps. It was almost as though it was being piped through the intercom speakers. It set Lucy's teeth on edge and made her mouth taste of metal.

“Where is it coming from?” Lockwood asked.

“Temperature's dropping,” George said.

“Where?”

“Everywhere,” George said after a few shaky steps. “The whole hallway.”

“It has to be coming from somewhere,” Holly protested.

Up the hall, Lockwood spotted a sudden reddish glow from the science lab. “Incoming,” he said. “Looks like it's Bloody Fingers.”

The screams continued, carrying right over the ghost of Mark Hamil. He stumbled from the classroom, one arm stretched out plaintively. Blood dripped and pattered from his sheared fingers, the stumps ending in clean cuts of bone and tissue. “My fingers,” he cried. “My fingers...”

“Betcha anything a bone rolled between a crack in the floorboards or something,” George remarked.

“We'll take a look,” Lockwood said and turned his rapier in Hamil's direction.

The ghost stumbled towards them, reaching for help. It was a little sad. Here he was just trying to do something nice for the school and a stupid accident had cost him his life. However, when his stubby bloody fingers reached for Lucy's face, she didn't feel much sympathy as the biting cold of his presence seeped through her coat. She made quick work of him with her rapier, flashing a simple warding knot. As expected, Hamil retreated to the science classroom.

The screaming still didn't stop. It didn't even falter.

“Is it Martha?” Lucy asked.

Lockwood squinted at the stairs. “I don't see any sign of her or her death glow.”

“Not surprising since she died so long ago,” Holly shouted to be heard over the screaming.

Lucy fumbled some mint gum into her mouth, chewing vigorously. She passed the pack around.

The scream went on and on, howling, aching, tearing at the walls and rattling the windows. The person screaming sounded like they were dying and since they were a ghost, they probably had. Lucy struck out from their group and headed for the stairs. Lockwood was quick to follow. George and Holly brought up the rear, everyone holding onto the railing tightly in case Screaming Martha made an appearance.

The screams were even louder upstairs in the dorms, if such a thing was possible. The silver charms, wards, and sprigs of lavender vibrated on their chains, tinkling slightly. The ceiling was shaking with the force of the sound. It was a wonder that anyone was able to sleep at all in this building. At the end of the hallway, near the bathrooms, there was a door that lead to roof.

“It might be Clara,” Holly said. “Should we look?”

Lockwood nodded and led the way.

However, before they reached the door, a spirit took shape. She stood in the middle of the hallway in a pair of loose-fitting striped pajamas. The neck and legs were smeared with blood. Though lit up with ghostly light, the face was familiar. It was Clara Odinson. She just stood there, her mouth closed and her eyes sad. Slowly, she stretched out her arm and pointed into one of the dorm rooms.

Lockwood reacted too fast and slashed through her with his rapier.

The scream choked off.

In the silence, Lucy's ears rang.

Holly rubbed her head. “Is that what it's like for you all the time, Lucy?”

“It's not usually that loud,” Lucy murmured.

“What was she doing?” Lockwood muttered. “Pointing at something? At her Source?”

Lucy peeked into the dorm, but nothing stood out about it. “Something in there? But we didn't get any spikes in readings.”

“Let's just take a quick walk through.”

Lockwood stepped over the iron line and moved slowly through the bunk beds. Holly, George, and Lucy each took a different aisle, feeling it out, looking for something odd.

“I don't think she was showing you her Source,” the Skull said. “I think she wanted you to know something else.”

“Like what?” Lucy asked him.

The Skull didn't answer.

Lucy huffed. There was a bare dirty mattress on the bottom bunk near where Clara had been pointing, but it wasn't so much blood as to raise a red flag. It could have been from something like a nose bleed or an aggressive menstrual flow. Lucy paused and Listened, but the room was quiet.

“This bed?” Lucy asked the Skull. “The mattress?”

“Bad things happen to children in places like this,” the Skull said softly.

Goosebumps prickled against Lucy's arms and down her back. “In a big room like this? But anyone could just look over and see...”

“Exactly,” the Skull murmured.

Lucy stretched out her hand.

“I wouldn't, if I were you,” the Skull said. “You remember what happened with Eliza Day's Source.”

The feeling of being murdered still hung on Lucy, but she wanted to know. She wanted to help Clara or anyone else who was being hurt. She placed her hand gingerly on the mattress, but nothing happened. Lucy pressed harder, her fingers finding the creases and her palm pressing into a wonky spring. The bed creaked noisily.

The Skull protested, “At least put me down first—”

XXX

Questions, comments, concerns? 


	4. The Bad Touch

Alright everyone, I got the call. My job is reopening this Monday like nothing ever happened so I'll only have time to edit/post once a week. Look for that update on Thursdays.

XXX

The mattress reeked. It stank like Lucy's clothes did after a particularly trying case. It smelled of fear-sweat, salty tears, and bloody iron. The smell surged up and overwhelmed her immediately, knocking her knees out and sending her crashing down to the floorboards. She heard an iron line skitter under the bed, kicked aside by her boot. Her hand was stuck to the post of the bunk bed, almost glued there, the icy cold making it impossible to draw away. She couldn't breathe without smelling more and she had to breathe because her vision was going dark at the corners.

“Lucy!” the Skull shouted.

Her sense of Touch reared up. It fluffed over Lucy like a heavy curtain, like a douse of cold water, like a grave shroud. One moment, she was standing there in her boots and rapier. The next, she was facedown in the horrific mattress in pajamas. Were these Clara's memories? She couldn't tell—they felt like they belonged to her.

A scream stifled in her throat.

A big rough hand fisted in the back of her pajama shirt and yanked. A button cut into her neck, choking her, strangling her. It was like a little point, like a blade against her tender skin. Another hand yanked at the waistband of her bottoms. The elastic made a snapping sound against her skin, stinging when it was released. She struggled, fought, tried to wrench away, but the mattress was there blocking her escape. She opened her mouth to scream and sucked in more of the smell.

Hot breath touched her ear, stinking of cigarettes and coffee. “Shh,” a man's voice said. “You'll wake them.”

For a moment, she didn't care. Let them wake up—let them see.

“They'll see you for the slut you are,” he hissed. “Spreading your legs for a meal and a place to sleep.”

She froze. In that moment, he wrenched her bottoms and her panties down around her ankles. The dorm room was usually stifling with so many bodies, so many children breathing, so many lost souls, but now it felt cold. Her nipples hardened, peaked. She squeezed her legs together.

“Stop,” she pleaded. Her voice was a whisper, weak and frail.

He didn't say anything. He bent her down into the mattress, pressing her chest into the stinking cloth, then her face. She thrashed, struggling to breathe, forgetting about her bare bottom and exposed legs. His hand dwarfed her head, digging her face into the springs and sagging pillow. She heard something tinkle, a metallic sound. Then, hairy skin was pressed against her buttocks and legs. She felt something hot and hard, slightly damp and sticky, probing against her thighs.

She had heard about things like this that happened when you were alone and in the dark. The Ragged School was supposed to be safe.

Tears pricked in her eyes. “No, please—don't. Stop.”

The pain was all at once familiar and foreign. It ached in her middle like a bad cramp, twisting and pulling as her body stretched to accommodate the intrusion. She had put her fingers there, feeling herself out under the cover of night, but this was nothing like that. He groaned as he pressed in, crushing her hips to the mattress. Seated inside her, bottomed out so that his tip gouged into her core, she thought it was over. Tears dripped down her cheeks, but at least she thought it was over.

Then, he began to move. The mattress creaked and squeaked. With each thrust, a little whimpering mewl escaped her. There was no way someone wasn't going to hear, no way someone hadn't heard already. Someone would come. Someone would stop this and save her. Someone would protect her—even though she had no one who cared.

He grunted at he pounded away, snapping his hips, bruising her insides and her upper arms where he gripped her like an animal. He stopped pressing her face into the pillow. He must have known she wasn't going to scream or maybe he forgot in the throes of his pleasure about being found out. She sucked in air, smelling the mattress, smelling him and herself.

“No more,” she pleaded.

He gripped the back of her pajama top again, jerking her upright. She hadn't thought it possible for his shaft to stab more deeply inside her, but it did. Pain flared at her center, spreading into her organs. She felt dry and cracked like a fruit left in the sun for too long. Impaled, pulled out of bed, she could see the rest of the dorm.

Everyone was sleeping around her, their bodies lumps under their blankets. She spied someone shivering, like they knew.

“Please stop,” she whispered.

“Oh, Clara,” he said. He jerked on her arm, digging deeper inside.

She whimpered.

“We're just getting started.”

“I'll scream,” she whispered.

“Then scream.”

She didn't.

—

“Lucy!” the Skull shouted.

“Luce!”

Lucy blinked.

A dark shape loomed over her. She could feel hands on her arms, gripping tight, holding her close.

“No!” she shrieked. She batted at him, luckily flailing while still overcome with the memories of her Touch rather than reaching for her rapier or a salt grenade. “No! Let me go!”

“Luce, Luce,” he insisted. Gently, he jostled her. His grip was firm but not painful. “Hey, hey, Luce. It's okay. It's me.”

Lucy heaved in a deep breath.

For a moment, Lockwood's pale face swam in and out of focus. His dark eyes were huge, reflecting the dim glow of the ectoplasm in the Skull's jar. His hair flopped over his forehead. He smelled clean and like sandalwood and lavender and their home at Portland Row.

Lucy inhaled desperately. Her attempts to fight went still. She found herself gripping Lockwood's coat in cold fingers, pulling him closer, gripping him the way a ship would keep sight of a lighthouse in a storm. She tried to breathe and a shuddering sob rattled in her chest.

Lockwood hushed her, his hand moving gently up and down her back.

Behind him, Holly and George were taking readings of the bed. It didn't look like they were finding anything besides a small dip in temperature, if the way Holly showed George her readout was anything to go by. Holly made notes and George threw a silver net over the bunk as best he could, just in case.

Lucy heaved a breath. Now that the panic had subsided, Clara's feelings being pushed aside to make room for her own, Lucy realized that she was still sniveling. She tried to make herself stop, but couldn't. Lockwood continued to stay at her side. They were on the floor, Lucy's legs stretched out before her, her shoulder tilted into Lockwood's chest, his arm around her back. His free arm was cast around her, turning her towards him. He was gripping her hand.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Touched it,” Lucy managed to say. Her throat was dry and raw. She tried to swallow, but her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. “This... it's Clara's bed.”

Lockwood's expression darkened. His hand pressed a little more firmly against her back, rubbing some warmth into her chilled body.

Lucy looked away. What had she said or done while she was Touching to make his face look like that? Shame welled inside her, balling up like a spiked fist inside her chest.

“Lucy,” the Skull said. “It's not your fault.”

It took a moment to recognize that the shame belonged to Clara.

Nausea swelled under Lucy's ribs. Clara had been pressed into that mattress and raped in this place where she should have been safe and Clara was the one who was ashamed. No, that wasn't how it was supposed to be. Lucy fought away the spike of emotion, breathing deep, trying to find herself again in the whirlpool of feelings that had come with her Touch.

“Tea?” Lockwood offered. “Or chocolate?”

Lucy opened her mouth, intending to say, 'Tea.'

Instead, her voice cracked and she said, “I want to leave.”

Lockwood squeezed her. “I'll help you up,” he said. “We'll go downstairs and get in the circle of chains. We'll regroup, okay?”

“No,” Lucy said. Her voice came out a whine and a new lump of shame clogged her throat. She swallowed.

“Holly, George,” Lockwood called. “We're going downstairs. Let's go.”

Without further ado, Lockwood pulled Lucy to her feet. She wobbled precariously, her knees shaking and her legs weak. She could feel phantom pain in her middle, a dry scratched-openness that Clara must have felt when it was over. She stumbled, but Lockwood's hold around her shoulders kept her upright.

She realized Lockwood was talking, saying softly, “Just a little more. Keep going. A few more steps. You're doing great, Luce. You're okay. Just a few more. Here, step carefully. No, don't touch the railing. Hold my hand, take it easy on the stairs. Just one step at a time. Stay with me, Luce.”

She focused on his voice instead of the way she was feeling. Before long, they were back inside the classroom where they had set up their chains. Once Lucy stepped over the iron, she felt a barrier come up between her and her Talent. Clara's feelings felt a little further from her. She could breathe again.

Lockwood guided her to sit.

Holly already had the kettle on and was rummaging through her pack for their sandwiches. George always scarfed his chocolate, but he went through Lucy's pack until he found hers. He snapped off a piece and handed it over. Lucy brought it to her mouth out of habit, letting the sugar melt on her tongue.

Lockwood pressed a cup of tea into her hands, curling his fingers over it and hers until she gripped it. Lucy took a sip and the knot inside her stomach loosened. Her heart stopped pounding and the stink of the mattress faded from her nostrils, replaced with the aroma of black tea.

“Want to eat something?” Holly offered.

Lucy shook her head.

“Yes,” Lockwood said. He handed Lucy her sandwich.

She hadn't realized that she had finished her chocolate.

“Just a few bites,” Lockwood told her.

Mechanically, Lucy put the sandwich to her mouth, bit, chewed, and swallowed. She sipped her tea. When she finished, she stared at her hands. She had calluses on her palms from her rapier. Her hands looked nothing like Clara's—no chipped nail polish, no bitten nails, no freckles, not scrabbling for purchase on a filthy bed.

“Do you still want to go home?” Lockwood asked.

Lucy thought she would say, 'No.' Instead, she nodded.

“Luce, talk to me.” Lockwood said with concern, “Do you want to go back to Portland Row?”

“Yes,” Lucy said.

“Okay,” Lockwood said gently. “Okay. Holly, you go home with Lucy. George and I will stay here and finish up for the night.”

Lucy gazed at Lockwood, her vision blurring at the edges. Why hadn't someone like him been there for Clara?

“Stay with her until we get back,” Lockwood said to Holly. “Don't press, but stay close. Don't leave even if she tells you to.”

“Okay,” Holly said. “I've got her.”

“George,” was all Lockwood said.

Then, Lockwood gathered Lucy against his side again. She wanted to protest, but he was warm and he felt safe. She took his hand when he offered it and let him lead her down the stairs to the first floor. George hailed a Night Cab. Lockwood loaded Lucy and Holly into it while George paid the driver. When Lockwood tried to let go and close the door, Lucy clung to his hand.

'Don't go,' she wanted to say.

“Luce?” Lockwood asked.

Lucy uncurled her fingers. “Thank you,” she said.

Lockwood's smile was a shell of its usual radiance. “No problem, Lucy,” he said. Then, he closed the cab door and the girls were off to Portland Row.

“Lucy?” Holly ventured.

Lucy turned to look at her.

Holly's dark skin was pale and her eyes seemed to glow in the flickering ghost lamp up the street. “We're here.”

Lucy climbed out of the cab, walked up the path, and unlocked the front door of Lockwood's childhood home. The crystal skull lamp was glowing warmly and the scents of their lunch still lingered. Habitually, Lucy removed her rapier and dropped it in the umbrella stand by the door. She unbuckled her work belt and put it on the sideboard on her way to the kitchen. She paused there, uncertain. She wasn't hungry or thirsty. She just felt... cold and dirty.

“I'm going to take a shower,” she told Holly. “I'll be right back.”

“Okay,” Holly said. “I'm here if you need anything. Just yell.”

Lucy climbed the stairs passed Lockwood and George's bedrooms, let herself into her attic bedroom, and then stopped just inside the door. She stared at her unmade bed, at the hulking piles of laundry on her floor, at her haunted reflection in the standing mirror on the open closet door. She almost turned and ran.

No, she told herself sternly. That was just Clara, lingering with her still.

Lucy forced herself to put one foot in front of the other, to cross the room, pick up her pajamas—a flannel nightgown rather than the top and bottoms that she could still feel from Clara's memories—and step into the bathroom. She started the water, turning it as hot as she could reasonably bear and then just a little more. Steam filled the small tilty room, fogged the mirror, hung in the air like cobwebs. Lucy shuddered as she stripped off her jacket, skirt, and boots. In her leggings and shirt, she just stood there, frozen.

She bent, removed one sock, then the other. Her naked toes dug into the carpet obscenely. She couldn't stand to take off the rest of her clothes, to see herself naked, to think about Clara's bare legs and bottom. She stepped beneath the spray with her clothes still on. The searing water immediately stuck them to her skin and Lucy yelped. Her shaking hands adjusted the temperature and the steam diminished. Lucy stood there, hands braced against the wall, hot water streaming down her head and shoulders for what felt like years.

Inch by inch, like a thick coating of muck cracking off her body and sluicing away down the drain, Clara's memories began to leave her. Lucy just felt hollow, empty, scoured out, a vault someone had broken into and stolen the precious contents of, leaving only trash. Maybe Clara was with her still.

Lucy turned off the water and stood in the shower, dripping from her sodden clothes. She shut her eyes and peeled them off, dropping them wetly in the bottom of the tub. She fumbled for her towel on the other side of the curtain, pulled it around herself, and stepped out. The mirror was a sheet of thick fog, revealing nothing, and Lucy was grateful. She dried herself off without looking and then pulled her nightgown over her head. She had forgotten panties, but the ones she had been wearing were now crumpled in the bottom of the tub.

Lucy hung up her towel, ran the comb through her tangled hair, and brushed her teeth like she was going to bed. When the opened the door back to her bedroom, the sun was just peeking up over the skyline and Lockwood was there. He was still wearing his trousers and white button-down, but he had pulled off his shoes and his tie. He was waiting for her, slumped in the hard-backed chair at her bedside that was usually covered in dirty laundry. Lucy didn't have the energy to care that he had moved it.

“Get out,” she said weakly.

Lockwood looked at her over his shoulder. His face was drawn with stress. “I thought you'd melted away in there,” he said.

Lucy was hyper-aware that she didn't have on underwear, that she had just spent however long standing in the shower with her clothes on, that she had attacked Lockwood when she came down from Clara's memories. “Get out,” she told him again. Her voice was a little stronger now. “Please.”

“I brought you some tea,” Lockwood said. “Would you like something to eat?”

“I want to be alone,” Lucy told him.

Lockwood let his breath out heavily. “That's not going to happen.”

Lucy bristled. “What?”

Lockwood turned to face her in the chair, staying low and small, keeping the confrontation that Lucy expected from taking place. “Luce,” he said gently. “I know you don't want to admit it, but you're upset.”

“I'm an agent—”

“Then I'm your leader,” he interrupted, “and I'm just looking out for you.”

Lucy fell silent.

“Touch isn't easy, Luce,” he murmured. “I know it isn't and what you felt Clara go through was as heavy as if it had happened to you. I don't envy that Talent.”

Lucy twisted her hands in her skirt.

“Okay?” he asked softly. “I'm here for you. You were in the shower for over an hour. I was worried about you.”

“I'm okay,” Lucy murmured. “It's just...”

“Later,” Lockwood said. “We'll talk about it later, after you've had some time.” He stretched out his hand, the fingers long and graceful, callused from his rapier. “Come here. Sit with me.”

Lucy slid her hand into his and let him tug her to sit on the bed. He remained on the chair, opened the thermos he had brought, and poured her a cup of lukewarm tea. Lucy could smell the honey, that fine sweetness that overpowered everything else. She took a grateful sip.

“Holly?” she asked.

“I sent her home,” Lockwood said.

“George?”

“Asleep downstairs.”

Lucy peered at him from beneath her lashes. “What happened at the Ragged School?”

“Later,” he said. “Drink.”

Lucy finished her tea. She stared at the empty mug, cradling it.

Lockwood plucked the warm porcelain from her fingers. “You should get some rest,” he said. “I'll be right here.”

“You shouldn't sit there,” Lucy murmured even as she curled up in her bed. The sun streaming through her attic window was warm where it fell across her blankets. She was exhausted, wrung out mentally and emotionally, to say nothing of the pain that still lingered in her body. “Your back will hurt.”

“It's okay,” Lockwood said. “Just get some rest.”

Lucy closed her eyes, but a moment later fluttered them open again. Lockwood was still in the chair, long legs stretched out, arms folded across his middle, eyes serious. He offered a smile when he saw her looking. Lucy closed her eyes again and didn't open them for hours.

…

When Lucy woke next, the sun was high in the sky. A quick glance at her bedside clock revealed that it was mid-afternoon. She had slept for hours and finally felt like herself again. She sat up, the covers she didn't remember snuggling under sliding down from her shoulders to pool in her lap.

She started to yawn and stretch the kinks out of her neck, but froze when she spotted Lockwood. He was slumped in the stiff chair at her bedside, exactly where she remembered. She hadn't thought he would stay at her side the whole time. His legs were kicked out, his arms were folded across his chest, and his head dipped so that his chin rested on his chest. He didn't look comfortable, but there he was.

“He hasn't left your side,” the Skull said softly.

Lucy looked sharply away from Lockwood to the Skull which was back in his usual place in her windowsill. Lockwood must have brought it up earlier that morning and Lucy hadn't even noticed. The Skull had been oddly quiet. Despite his self-proclaimed position of 'evil,' he had been surprisingly sweet to her delicate mental state. Even now, he wasn't goggling at her. The face that weaved through the glowing ectoplasm was normal, if still the gaunt and hollow-eyed face of a starving youth.

“I tried getting him to leave,” the Skull continued and demonstrated his methods with a hideous face. “But he fell asleep there, looking after you.”

Lucy didn't know what to say in response. Carefully, she swung her legs down and loosened the extra quilt from the foot of her bed. She tried to ease it over Lockwood's sleeping form, but he woke with a start the moment it touched him. His dark eyes quickly picked over her, but then calmed as he smiled. Something in Lucy's chest loosened and warmed at the same time that it squeezed up.

“Luce,” Lockwood murmured. “Feeling better?”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “Thanks for... this.”

Lockwood sat up and his back cracked unpleasantly. He groaned, but told her, “It was no problem.”

Lucy couldn't help the way her eyes strayed to the little ribbon of skin that showed between his trousers and his lifted shirt. A memory of Clara's assailant's naked skin flickered through Lucy's mind.

“Oye,” the Skull bit out. “I see you making mooney eyes at him.”

“I wasn't—” Lucy protested before remembering that Lockwood was right there. She flushed and said flatly, “Shut up.”

The Skull stuck out his tongue.

Lockwood glanced between the two of them. “Lover's quarrel?”

“As if,” Lucy remarked and rose from her bed with a huff. However, she was grateful to the Skull for pulling her from her reverie.

Lockwood watched her as she paced around her room, gathering up a clean-ish change of clothes.

At the drawer that held her bras and panties, Lucy hesitated. She turned to face Lockwood, leaning against her dresser in what she hoped was a casual way. “I'm going to get dressed and clean up a little. I'll meet you downstairs in ten?”

Lockwood looked uncertain.

Lucy wondered how exactly she had behaved to put that expression on his face. Not once had she ever seen Lockwood like this. He was always energetic and sure-of-himself. It was one of the qualities that made him such a great leader, one of the things she admired about him, one of the things she loved him for. Lucy relented in the face of that expression.

“Or,” she said softly, “wait outside the door for me.”

Lockwood appeared to catch himself. He raked a hand through his hair and smiled. “No, no,” he said. “I'll meet you downstairs. I could stand a bit of freshening up myself.”

Lucy watched him depart, her clothes clutched in her arms.

Lockwood hesitated at the threshold, glancing back at her, before finally slipping out of view.

Lucy resisted the urge to peek and see if he was hiding around the corner. Instead, she quickly paced to the bathroom to relieve herself. She happened a glance in the mirror and saw that her short dark hair was a rat's nest atop her head. Yikes, and she had seen Lockwood like that. She tried to tame it, mostly succeeded, and then brushed her teeth.

In the bottom of the tub, she found her clothes from the night before. She remembered asking to leave, coming home, standing beneath the spray, unable to bear the sight of her own skin—but it felt like a nightmare, distant and hazy. Lucy wrung the clothes out and hung them up to dry. She changed out of her pajamas and back into her usual uniform of leggings, a skirt, and a t-shirt. Adding a zip-up jumper against the chill, she put on her slippers instead of her boots.

“Feel better?” the Skull asked.

“Worried about me?” Lucy asked it.

“Not hardly,” the Skull said with an imperious sniff. “Just wondering if they'll cram your head in here alongside with mine. Then we could talk forever.”

Lucy repressed the urge to roll her eyes. Her evil moldy Skull chose to show its concern in the most interesting ways. “Well, I'm feeling much better so I think you'll be alone in there for a good long while,” she said.

“Good,” the Skull retorted. “Because I've seen how long you take in the bathroom and I don't think I could stand having you for a housemate for all eternity. I need time in the mirror too, you know.”

Lucy picked up the ghost-jar and tucked it under her arm. “Noted,” she said lightly and carried it downstairs with her.

George was seated at the kitchen table, idly snacking on some crisps and doodling on the Thinking Cloth spread across the table. He looked up and grinned when she entered. “Well, hullo, Sleeping Beauty.”

“Sorry,” Lucy said. She pulled open the cabinets and began scouting for a pleasing snack. “That Touch really took it out of me.”

George swallowed. “No problem,” he said. “Don't worry about it.”

Lucy found an unopened package of biscuits and sat down at the table with them. She kept them out of reach when George held out his hand for one. “So, what did I miss last night?”

“Nothing much,” George said. “Lockwood and I made a few more rounds. The screaming restarted about an hour later.”

The cookie turned to lead in Lucy's stomach.

“Based on your reaction to the Touch,” George said lowly, “we can guess what drove Clara to kill herself.”

Lucy swallowed, swiped George's glass of water, and took a big sip. Her emotions must have shown on her face because he didn't even protest.

Lockwood dropped into his usual seat at the head of the table, took a biscuit, and bit into it. “Luce, George?”

Lucy passed the snacks over to George and said, “We're good. George was just catching me up. He said the screaming started again?”

“It did,” Lockwood agreed. He finished off his biscuit. “We all made assumptions based on your reaction, Luce, but I was hoping you'd feel ready to tell us what you saw when you Touched so that we can plan accordingly.”

“Just get it over with,” the Skull advised. “Spit it out.”

Lucy nodded. “Someone raped Clara.”

“Someone?” George asked.

Lockwood's dark eyes were glued to Lucy's face.

“A man,” Lucy said. “He was bigger and stronger. He smoked and he was hairy.” Her breath rattled in her chest. “He called her a slut. He raped her right there in her bed, with all the others around. He told her to be quiet. He said if they woke, they'd all see what a slut she was.” Lucy was aware that her voice was rising in pitch, but she couldn't stop. The words just poured from her. “She begged him to stop. She pleaded and she cried. She tried to fight, but he was too strong. He almost suffocated her.”

“Luce,” Lockwood said gently.

Lucy snapped her eyes to his face and blurted, “She threatened to scream, but she never did. She just laid there and took it.”

“Hey, hey,” George interrupted softly. “We know now, okay, Lucy? We're going to see that Clara gets justice.”

Lucy sucked in air. “Right,” she said. Abruptly, the world around her cleared. The taste of the chocolate biscuit lingered on her tongue and she was ravenous. “You're right.” Lucy took he package of cookies back from George and helped herself to one, then two. Her hollow stomach unclenched. “Are we going back tonight?”

“If you're up for it,” George said, “you could always stay—”

“No,” Lucy said. “I'm ready to go back. I want to see Clara get some peace. She deserves it.”

George nodded.

Lockwood was still watching her, his eyes dark and fathomless. His hand, where it curled around his second biscuit, was white-knuckled. Lucy smiled at him, letting them both know she was okay, and she saw his grip gradually loosen. He finished his biscuit and reached for another. Lucy held the package out to him.

“Oye,” the Skull protested. “Where's mine?”

Feeling uncharacteristically generous to the Skull, Lucy set a cookie atop his glass dome with a broad smile.

“That's just cruel,” the Skull muttered and made a show of licking the inside of the glass.

George's face was horrified.

When Lockwood noticed the exchange, he started laughing and couldn't stop. Lucy gazed at him, watching his head tip back and his hair flop as he laughed as though making up for lost time. She giggled, first at the Skull and then along with Lockwood. George started chuckling too and that was how Holly found them, doubled over around the table with a small stack of cookies piled atop the pitiful looking head in the ghost-jar. The Skull usually delighted in tormenting Holly with rude faces, but he now turned doe eyes upon her.

“What,” Holly asked, “is going on here?”

Lucy, Lockwood, and George burst into renewed giggles. It was too hard to explain why.

XXX

Let me go ahead and defend Lockwood here. Usually, I'm 100% consent all the way, but in this exact scenario, I believe Lockwood is justified in not obeying Lucy's expressed wishes. The books don't really address what I believe Touch does to an agent. This is a young person taking in all the emotions and memories of someone who died under extreme duress. In this case, it's the memories of Clara's rape—an action which drove Clara to commit suicide. Now, all Clara's feelings are knocking around in Lucy's head and Lockwood is concerned. I think it's justified on his part and any of us would want to stay with our friend in this scenario. Okay? Okay.

Questions, comments, concerns?


	5. The Source

Being back at work is so lame and the new rules for dealing with this plague change daily.

XXX

Lockwood and Co headed back to the Ragged School just before nightfall. They trekked from Portland Row to the bus stop, boarded together with all their satchels, and then walked from the stop to the school. Lucy looked up at the towering brick building, but there was no sign of anything unusual just yet. Holly lingered at her side the moment she stopped walking. It took Lockwood and George only another second to do the same, looking back at her with concern.

“Luce?” Lockwood asked. “Are you okay?”

“Peachy,” Lucy told him.

Lockwood nodded though his dark eyes remained focused on her a moment longer and then let them in through the peeling black door without knocking. The hallways were as Lucy remembered, if not pressing in a little closer. Lockwood easily retraced their route through the school to the second floor where they once again set up their chains in a classroom and dumped their gear inside for safekeeping. Then, they made their way back downstairs to the mess hall.

Loitering outside the double doors, kicking her worn shoes and twisting the hem of her over-sized jumper, Jennifer was waiting. The bruise on her face was fading to green and the one around her wrist was yellow already, but it was no less painful-looking. She forced a little smile when she saw them approach, but danced away when she noticed George and Holly. “Who're they?” she asked Lockwood with the same aura of a deer about to bolt from potential predators.

“Our teammates,” Lockwood assured her. Tall as he was, he crouched to be level with her. “You can trust them.”

Jennifer looked doubtful.

“Holly, George,” Lockwood said softly. “Why don't you go on ahead? Save us a seat?” Unspoken, Lockwood instructed, 'Make sure we're not disturbed.'

Holly nodded, smiled at the little girl, and ducked into the mess hall. Through the little window, Lucy saw Holly grab a seat close to the door, prepared to head off anyone who came their way. It wouldn't last long, but it would give them at least a few minutes with Jennifer uninterrupted. Lucy crouched beside Lockwood and smiled thinly.

“Is there something you wanted to talk to us about?” Lockwood asked.

Jennifer scuffed the toe of her shoe. “I wanted to thank you for coming,” she said quietly. “Fiona didn't think anyone would care.”

Lucy's stomach tightened. “Jennifer,” she began. “I saw Clara last night.”

Jennifer looked away. “Did you?”

“I know what happened to Clara,” Lucy continued. She thought of the little shape that had been shivering in bed while Clara was raped. Was that Jennifer or Fiona or someone else entirely? “Is there something you wanted me to know?”

Jennifer glanced timidly over her shoulder at the closed cafeteria doors. “I'm not supposed to say,” she mumbled.

“No one's listening,” Lockwood assured her. “You're safe right now.”

Jennifer glanced at him and must have seen something trustworthy in his face or stature. Silently, she pulled up her jumper.

Lockwood snatched his eyes to the side to preserve her modesty, but he had already seen. Lucy gently gripped Jennifer's hands and lowered the heavy sweater back into place. The jumper was long like a dress on Jennifer's slight body. Beneath it, she wore only blood-tinged white panties. There were bruises and bites on her thighs and hips.

“Who did this to you?” Lucy asked.

“Different people,” Jennifer murmured. “They come in at night and...”

Lucy swallowed.

“They used to come at night,” Jenifer confessed, “but since Clara's started screaming, no one comes at night. Now, they come during the day. We have to go out and meet them or we can't come in at night.”

Lockwood's face was as pale as his shirt. “Who makes you go out?” he asked.

Jennifer shuffled her feet, unwilling to meet his eyes. “Not supposed to say,” she murmured. “Where will I sleep if I don't...?”

Lucy and Lockwood were both practically on their knees with Jennifer and missed Holly waving a warning through the little window. Next thing they knew, Alessa had opened the door and found them like that. Jennifer froze and Lucy's eyes widened in surprise.

Lockwood, ever the quick thinker, quickly yanked the lace on Jennifer's shoe and said, “And that's how you make a Windsor knot like my tie,” as though he had been teaching her the entire time.

“Jennifer,” Alessa said chidingly, “you know how to tie your shoes, don't you?”

“Yes, Headmistress,” Jennifer answered. “But Mr Lockwood was showing me a different way.”

“It's suppertime now,” Alessa said. “Come on inside now and get a tray. I've already called your table.”

“Yeah ma'am.” Jennifer slipped into the cafeteria.

Alessa smoothed a wrinkle out of her skirt. “You shouldn't be down there on the floor with the children, Mr Lockwood,” she said primly. “It isn't... proper. People might get the wrong idea.”

Lucy bit back the urge to defend him. She rolled her hands into fists.

“Quite right,” Lockwood agreed and said nothing more.

Alessa nodded and held the door open for them.

Jennifer was seated at a table with other children her age, picking at her food. She glanced over and then away when she saw them speaking with Alessa. There was no sign of Fiona. Alessa moved between the tables, gliding as smoothly as any ghost as she checked in on everyone with a smile.

“There's something I don't like about that woman,” Lucy whispered.

“She's just watching out for the children as best she can,” Lockwood said under his breath.

“I can't believe she said that to you about Jennifer when someone is actually—” Lucy cut herself off, huffing a deep breath to steady her nerves.

Lockwood didn't answer save to catch Lucy's eye and give a pinched smile of reassurance.

Holly and George waved, beckoning Lockwood and Lucy over.

…

After dinner, they regrouped in the classroom and Lockwood relayed their unpleasant conversation with Jennifer and their squishy exchange with Alessa. Holly and George looked suitably revolted. Lucy paced inside the little circle of chains, thinking of how Clara had felt as she was pressed into the mattress and assaulted until she couldn't take it any longer, until her feelings of shame and suffering had driven her to take her own life. She thought of Jennifer, lifting her sweater to show the same thing.

“Lucy,” the Skull called, snapping her back to the conversation at hand.

“We need to investigate the adult's building,” Lockwood said. “This is our chance to really go through while they're all in the cafeteria with the kids.”

“Not all of them,” George remarked.

“Mr Darby,” Holly reminded them.

Lucy's lip curled. “He's the one who was 'friends' with Clara. He was 'mad' when she died.”

“That means we'll have to do something to get him out of his room,” Lockwood said.

“We could toss a magnesium flare inside. All that Greek Fire ought to chase him right out,” Lucy snarled. Her anger felt overwhelming and she swallowed.

“I was thinking something less extreme,” Holly remarked. “This is still a school.”

Lucy couldn't exactly disagree.

“Any ideas?” George asked.

“Actually, I have one,” Lockwood said. His smile was wickedly pleased and Lucy liked his plan even before she heard it.

Afterwards, they split up the second floor where the classrooms were, each taking a corner of the hall and waiting for Bloody Fingers to show himself. The plan was that they'd find his Source, bundle it up, stuff it under Mr Darby's door, and wait for the ghost to escort him right out of his apartment in terror. Bloody Fingers was a slow-moving Type One who was such a low threat that the Ragged School didn't even care about his presence, or Screaming Martha's for that matter, but she had yet to make an appearance. Lockwood imagined that Bloody Fingers wouldn't be much of a threat, even to an adult.

After the sun set and darkness descended, they didn't have to wait long for the screaming to start. Listening to it, recognizing Clara's voice, set Lucy's teeth on edge. She stuffed some gum in her mouth and chewed ferociously. The Skull, safe in her backpack, was attempting to sing over the screaming. Lucy knew that he was trying to distract her and appreciated the effort, but all it did was mingle his godawful rendition of 'God Save the Queen' with Clara's agonized howls. She debated stuffing her gum into her ears.

Holly sidled up to her from across the hall, abandoning her post. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Lucy said, “except for the headache I'm getting.”

Holly offered a sympathetic smile. “Do you want to head downstairs? Maybe it won't be so bad there.”

Lucy shook her head and gnawed her gum. “I'm okay. I just want to get this over with.”

Holly was about to turn back to her position when the reddish hue bloomed in the science lab.

Lucy heard Mr Hamil's moans start up, layering oddly under the endless screaming.

“My fingers,” he lamented. “My fingers.”

“There he is,” Lucy said. “Right on cue.”

Holly and Lucy drew their rapiers. The plan was for the boys to duck into the lab while the girls dispatched Mr Hamil. When his ghost retreated back to its Source, they would find it, bring it up, and use it to evacuate Mr Darby from his room. Lucy hung back, supporting Holly while she took point.

“My fingers,” the spirit wailed. “My fingers.”

Holly slashed her rapier cleanly through him, one, two, three strokes.

Bloody Fingers dissipated immediately.

Lucy and Holly remained in the hall, just in case he regrouped sooner than expected. There was some banging and sliding and general noise from the lab as Lockwood and George rummaged for the Source, but it was hard to hear beneath the screaming.

“It is always like this for you?” Holly asked, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Kind of,” Lucy admitted. “Remember Eliza Day? The whole time we were looking for her, I could hear the river and you guys couldn't. It drove me nearly mad. At least everyone can hear this.”

“That bites,” Holly said evenly.

However, a moment later, George cried out, “Victory! It rolled into the heating vent and got stuck. Ouch—cold! You owe me a pound, Lockwood.”

“We didn't bet anything, George,” Lockwood retorted.

They emerged from the hallway with a single finger bone tied up with a tiny silver ward triumphantly.

“Right, let's do this,” Lucy said and slipped her rapier back at her hip.

The screaming died down suddenly and the silence was eerie. Lucy's ears rang with her own heartbeat. Lockwood and George looked just the same. Holly flexed her jaw until her ears popped and then smoothed her skirt. The Skull finished off his final verse.

“What? No applause?” the Skull demanded. “You ingrate, I'll remember this.”

Lucy followed Lockwood and George down the stairs to the first floor, outside passed the ghost lamps, and in the doors of the little house next door. It was as she remembered it, if a little bleaker and nastier now that she knew what had happened to Clara within these walls. As before, there was light from a television flickering under one door.

George gleefully began untying the finger bone.

“Wait,” Holly protested. “Shouldn't we give him a chance to leave before we throw Bloody Fingers in there?”

“No,” George said.

“Yes,” Lockwood said and rapped smartly on the door. “Mr Darby?”

The television turned down. “Who is it?”

Frankly, Lucy was shocked that he had bothered to answer. Lockwood seemed surprised too.

“Anthony Lockwood,” he called through the door, “of Lockwood and Company. We're here investigating Screaming Martha and Bloody Fingers.”

“What?” Mr Darby shouted.

“Lockwood and Co,” Lockwood repeated loudly. “We're here for Bloody Fingers and Screaming Martha.”

There was the sound of shuffling inside. “Those two are just the mark of an old building settling,” Mr Darby responded. “Just let 'em be. They've been here as long as I have.”

“That's not what we're been hired for,” Lockwood told the door.

“What?” Mr Darby shouted.

“Just open the door!” George shouted back.

There was more shuffling, the television turned off, and a chain slid back. Then, Mr Charles Darby pulled open the door to his room. It was neat and orderly with a twin bed pushed against the wall, a single faded armchair perched before a newer TV, a low bookcase loaded with penny dreadfuls, and a weathered game of Monopoly on the coffee table. A large potted lavender plant soaked up the moonlight in the large windowsill and an iron line had been drawn at his threshold. Mr Darby was already dressed for bed in fuzzy pink slippers and a matching robe over his flannels.

“You'll have to forgive me,” he said and fiddled with his hearing aid. “I don't hear so good anymore.”

Lucy stared at him for a moment. He had all the threat of a day-old pudding that had been left in the sun. Despite everything she knew about rape, she found it hard to believe this ancient man was capable of committing it. He just didn't seem to have the strength... or the blood flow to achieve an erection. By Lockwood's momentary silence, he was thinking along the same lines.

“What this about you trying to evict Screaming Martha and Bloody Fingers? They give the place character,” he continued. “Just leave 'em.”

Clara's terrible screaming started again.

Despite his terribly advanced age, Mr Darby flinched at the sound. He was able to hear it. “Please, you should do something about that, though,” he said when there was a pause in the screaming. “Poor Clara. She deserves to rest.”

“You mean,” George said, “you want us to look into this?”

“Into poor Clara, certainly,” Mr Darby agreed.

Lucy glanced at Holly and Lockwood. Alessa had lied when she said Charles Darby insisted he didn't hear anything. He didn't mind Screaming Martha or Bloody Fingers, but no one else seemed to mind them either so that wasn't odd. But he heard Clara and he wanted something to be done about her.

“Poor Clara,” he murmured beneath the endless screams. “She died so young. Before her time, she did. It makes me so mad.”

“Mad?” Lucy asked.

Mr Darby turned his watery blue eyes on her. “Of course,” he said. “I'm always mad when something happens to the children. Too many Night Watch kids have died protecting this city, too many agents like yourselves too. It's not right. If I had the means, I would fight the ghosts. I'm at the end of my life so what would my death matter? But alas...”

Clara's screams broke off into sobs.

“I can only hear dear Clara,” he murmured. “I wish she had come to me. I would have helped her.”

“Did you know what happened to her before she died?” Lucy asked.

“I saw a bruise on her arm,” Mr Darby said, “but when I asked her about it, she said she fell. I didn't believe her. I saw fingerprints in it. Someone roughed her up. But I didn't get a chance to help her. That night, she jumped into the canal.” He blotted his face with the sleeve of his robe.

“Turn off the waterworks,” the Skull muttered. “It's pathetic. This old fogey crying over the daughter he never had.”

Lucy touched Lockwood's elbow and murmured his name.

He glanced at her.

She shook her head.

“Thanks,” Lockwood said. “Sorry for disturbing you.”

Mr Darby nodded stately. “Let me know if I an do anything to help you,” he said. “I'd like to know that Clara is resting in peace.”

“Actually,” George interrupted. “We're doing a sweep for Clara's Source. Would you mind if we took a quick look in here?”

“Go right ahead,” Mr Darby said. “You don't mind if I sit, do you? My old bones aren't what they used to be.”

“Not at all,” Holly told him.

Mr Darby creaked back to his chair in front of the TV while Holly and George made a sweep of his single room. Lockwood took a moment to use his Talent and Lucy did the same, but nothing jumped out. Holly and George likewise found nothing, not even a cold spot. There was no change in pitch or frequency to Clara's screaming.

“Thanks for your time,” Holly said politely.

Mr Darby nodded. “Just close the door, will you?”

Lockwood did so.

A moment later, the television came on.

“I don't think it's him,” Lucy said.

“I hate to admit you're right, but I don't think it is either,” George agreed.

“Let's do a sweep of the other adult's rooms,” Lockwood said. “I'll go with Lucy to the third floor. George and Holly, take this floor. Let us know the second you find something.”

Together, Lockwood and Lucy climbed the narrow staircase to the third floor. Clara's screamed tapered into sobs, then rose back to screams. The Skull didn't start singing this time. He just weighed heavily in Lucy's backpack, quiet like a grave. Lockwood opened the first door on the right. They stopped, used their Talents, took readings, found nothing, and moved on.

“What are we even looking for?” Lucy asked when they finished off the third out of four rooms. “A trophy?”

“I couldn't say, Luce,” Lockwood said.

They swept the fourth and final room with no results. Clara was still screaming.

“Let's meet back up with Holly and George,” Lucy suggested.

Lockwood nodded and followed her back downstairs. Holly and George had just finished up too.

“Anything?” Lucy asked.

“Nada,” George said dejectedly.

“There must be something we're missing,” Holly remarked. “Clara's Source has to be here somewhere.”

“Unless it's in the canal,” George said.

Lockwood shook his head. “No,” he concluded. “Her scream is too powerful to be that far away and we saw an apparition of her on the third floor outside the dorms.”

“The echo on her old bed was still so strong,” Lucy said, “even though it's been a year since she died.”

“Let's go back to the dorm and look around again. We must have missed something,” Holly said.

“Let's climb up,” Lockwood said. “I want to take a look at something.”

“Climb up where?” George asked.

“The roof,” Lockwood said.

“Oh, no,” George protested. “I am not climbing all over the roof. Holly, you and I should walk sensibly back to the Ragged School like regular people.”

Holly looked down at her pinafore dress and agreed. “We'll meet you at the third floor dormitory. Lucy?”

“I'll go with Lockwood,” she answered.

They split up. Lucy followed Lockwood back to the third floor and he opened the door that led onto the roof. Together, they stepped out into the cool night. Immediately, Clara's screaming stopped. The night was deep and quiet, broken only by the sound of the canal and some chirruping crickets.

“Clara's screaming is confined to the building,” Lockwood remarked. “Her Source must be in there somewhere.”

Lucy paced to the edge of the roof and looked down into the dark canal. She knew what Clara had felt when she was being raped, knew the dark thoughts and self-loathing that had swirled within the girl's heart. She didn't really know what had driven her to jump to her death. Her suicidal urges were absent from the memory. Maybe it was the first time she had been...

Lucy thought of Jennifer's bitten and bruised thighs.

“Luce,” Lockwood called. His voice had that quality where he was trying not to show his concern. She heard it often on cases in the instant before something went terribly wrong.

Lucy took several steps away from the edge of the roof. “I'm fine,” she assured him. “I was just thinking.”

“About Clara?”

“And Jennifer.”

“We're going to get to the bottom of this,” he said. “And when we do, the kids will be safe here.”

“Will they?” Lucy murmured. “I mean, are any of us safe anywhere? Agent or Night Watch, Talented or Talentless, we're all just... children in this world of adults who use us like tools.”

Lockwood stood shoulder-to-shoulder with her. Of all the agencies in the entire city, Lockwood and Co was the only one run by a Talented youth. All the others were headed by adults who had long since lost their Talents. They told themselves that they were using their experience to keep the kids alive, but both Holly and Lucy had seen the falsity of that statement. Was any one place safer than any other?

“Lucy?” Lockwood murmured.

She looked at him.

The moonlight caught on the smooth curve of his face, hanging in his eyes and along his nose and against the curl of his lips. His dark hair was unruly where he had dragged a hand through it. There was a scar on his neck that shone white. Lucy remembered all the times Lockwood had saved her, even at risk to himself. He had pulled her from the brink at Combe Carey Hall, he had come for her in Kensal Green Cemetery, he had braved the shattered remains of the Aickmere Brother's Department Store, he had walked with her on the Other Side. He had been beside her every step of the way, even now.

“I guess,” she admitted lowly, “I'm safe so long as I'm with you.”

A little smile pulled at Lockwood's mouth, the crooked one that he reserved just for those he cared about. “Let's go.”

“Oh, barf,” the Skull muttered. “How about throwing me into the canal? I'll look for her Source while I'm there.”

They walked across the roof of the building beside the Ragged School, climbed over a little retaining wall, and let themselves down into the school again. The screaming immediately resurfaced. Holly and George were just arriving, climbing up the stairs to the third floor. Lucy and Lockwood waited for them before stepping into the room where Lucy had Touched Clara's bed. It looked no more threatening now that it had the day she touched it.

“When you Touched this, did you see anything that might have become Clara's Source?” George asked.

Lucy searched through the memories and then shook her head. “I could try again.”

Lockwood blocked her hand. “No,” he said. “At least, not yet. I didn't like seeing you like that, Luce. I don't want you to go through it again unless you absolutely have to.”

“Hear, hear,” George agreed.

“Okay,” Lucy relented. She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Let's look around then.”

Lockwood flipped the bare mattress and felt around it for hidden spaces a person could conceivably hide something in. Holly tapped her penlight against the frame of the bunk, seeing if it was hollow. George took temperature readings and ran his hand along the floor in search of a loose or raised board. Lucy watched and Listened.

Nothing turned up.

Lockwood scratched his head. “We're missing something.”

Holly paced around the bed, staring at it from all angles.

George checked his notes.

Lucy thought of Clara and Jennifer and Fiona. Abruptly, she said, “I want to look in Alessa's office.”

“Why?” George asked.

“She lied to us about Mr Darby,” Lucy said. “Maybe she lied about something else.”

“Why would she had hired us if she had something to hide?” George asked.

“Don't forget,” Lucy said, “She didn't really hire us.”

Lockwood hissed a little breath between his teeth.

They abandoned the dormitories, found their way back to the first floor, and retraced the winding path they had taken that first day. Before long, they were standing before the door to Headmistress Alessa's office. Lockwood tried the door, but it was locked.

“Odd,” Holly remarked. “Even their bedrooms were unlocked, but Alessa locked up her office?”

Lockwood had many skills, but lock-picking wasn't one of them. He stepped aside and let George go to work. After a few tense minutes, they heard the lock tumble and George turned the knob. Immediately, Clara's powerful scream roared through the building. Holly was so startled that she covered her ears. George yelped and Lucy jumped. Lockwood saw, as the door swung open, a lovely girl in bloodied pajamas standing beside the desk. She pointed, her eyes sad and her mouth closed, at something near the desk. Then, she was gone and the screaming stopped.

“What was that about?” George demanded.

“I saw her,” Lockwood said. He sprang over the threshold and began rummaging through Alessa's desk. The first three drawers were unlocked, but the fourth one on the right-hand bottom side was locked. Lockwood jammed the point of his rapier between the drawer and the desk and pried it open. He gasped.

“What is it?” Lucy asked. “Is it her Source?”

“Don't,” Lockwood said. He help up his hand to stop her. “Don't look.”

Lucy batted him away. She had seen half-rotten corpses, severed heads and toes, burned bones and locks of cut hair, lockets and bloody diaries. She had seen all measure of depravity that anchored the dead to this world. None of it prepared her adequately for the drawer full of bloodstained panties and boxers. One pair—pink with little purple flowers—belonged to Clara. On top of it, of similar design though a different color scheme, was a small pair that would fit Jennifer perfectly.

Lucy turned away, her stomach churning, acid scalding her throat.

“Give me something to secure the Source,” Lockwood said. His voice was distant. “George, call Inspector Barnes.”

XXX

Questions, comments, concerns? 


	6. The Aftermath

Is anyone else back to work? Or just me?

XXX

Headmistress Alessa was just directing everyone through the cleanup of breakfast when the double doors to the mess hall were pushed open. She smiled when she saw Lockwood and crossed to greet the team. “Good morning,” she said cheerfully. “Were you able to uncover anything?”

“Of course,” George said. “We were able to locate the Sources of both Bloody Fingers and Clara Odinson last night.”

Alessa's smile cracked. “Clara?”

“Is there somewhere else we might speak about this?” Lockwood put in. “Perhaps your office.” He didn't give her much room for argument.

It was clear that Alessa wasn't sure how much, if anything, they knew. She instructed another teacher to oversee the trays being brought back to the kitchen, excused herself, and led them all back to her office. The beginnings of sunrise splashed bloody and red across the children's artwork taped on her walls. Alessa perched behind her desk, hands laced together on its surface. “You said that you saw Clara?”

“On the third floor,” George said, “in the dormitory.”

Alessa wet her lips and tucked an errant piece of wavy hair behind her ear. “Oh.”

George took a seat in front of her, leaving the second chair empty. Lockwood guided Lucy surreptitiously into it and stood behind her, one hand resting casually on the back. Holly moved to stand on Lucy's other side and she was grateful for their support.

“How long have you been headmistress here?” George asked in a way that made it seem he already knew the answer.

“About three years,” Alessa admitted.

“So you knew Clara,” George said.

Alessa nodded. “It was a tragedy when she died.”

George removed his glasses, polished them, and put them back on his nose. “But she didn't just die,” he said. “Clara jumped off the roof and into the canal. She committed suicide. Do you know why?”

“I can't say that I do,” Alessa said. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I can't be expected to know the inner workings of everyone's hearts. There are so many children here.”

“That's right,” Lucy said with sudden bitterness. “So many children, all looking for sanctuary, for an adult that gives a damn about them.”

Lockwood put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed.

Alessa looked as though she had been slapped.

George continued as though Lucy hadn't spoken. “You knew that Clara was raped, didn't you?”

Alessa's hand flew to her mouth, stifling a gasp. Her skin was washed of all color. “No!”

Lucy couldn't believe this woman's gall—playing the part, acting innocent, pretending that she cared. Lucy thought of Fiona and Jennifer, sneaking out to ask for help in the middle of the ghost-infested night because their day was a different kind of hell, of Jennifer's bruises. It wasn't just ghosts they needed protection from.

George didn't respond. He silently stared at Alessa. Holly and Lockwood did the same, their faces tight. Lucy tried to mimic them, even though she felt about to shake apart from the inside out.

“Bloody Fingers' Source was a missing bone that had rolled into a heating vent and gotten stuck,” George explained. “Clara's Source was much harder to locate, but we managed.” Wrapped in a small silver net, he placed the little parcel down on Alessa's desk.

Alessa recoiled.

“Do you know where we found it?” George asked.

Alessa's eyes darted. She made to push her chair back from her desk, but there was nowhere to go.

“Who could blame you?” George said conversationally. “You needed the funds for the Ragged School, didn't you? Money is so tight around here, after all.”

Alessa's face hardened. “Don't you mock me,” she ground out. “You have no idea what it's like, trying to support all these children. Talentless wretches with nowhere else to turn and no one to miss them. I had to do something before they all starved to death, before we were forced to close our doors. If that happened, they'd all die on the streets anyway. So I chose one with no family and I charged a flat rate. Eventually, they'd run away and the problem would take care of itself.” She opened her hands, spreading her fingers above the bloody undergarments. “Even if Clara had said something, no one would have believed her.”

Lucy's gut twisted. “Just like no one would have believed Fiona or Jennifer.”

George scooped Clara's bloodstained panties, wrapped in the silver net, off Alessa's desk.

Alessa leaped to her feet. “Leave those!” she demanded. “I will burn them myself.”

“These are a Source,” Lockwood said coldly, “so it's the responsibility of an agent to see them destroyed. Beyond that, they're evidence and we have already contacted our friend at DEPRAC who will see them delivered to the proper authorities.”

“I'll pay you double!” Alessa said urgently. “Double what they would.”

“Sorry,” George said, “but no.”

Alessa lunged over the desk, her eyes wild and her manicured nails like claws. Gone was the matronly woman who had feigned concern for the children under her watch. In her place was a greedy and wicked person, cruel in the way that the world was.

Lockwood snapped his rapier from his waist in the blink of an eye. The point pressed into the middle of her chest, stopping her in her tracks. “We'll be taking our leave now,” he said lightly. “I'd just wait here if I were you. The police will be along shortly to collect you.”

Alessa dropped into her desk chair. With a shaking hand, she pulled open the empty once-locked drawer. The edge was gouged where Lockwood had pried it open. She didn't scream or cry. She just stared into it.

Lockwood closed the door on her and wedged a chair under the knob to keep her inside. He led his team through the building and out onto the steps. They stood in front of the peeling black doors, huddled together while the building towered above them like a headstone.

“Maybe,” George murmured, “we should leave Clara's here.”

Lucy glanced at him. “Why?”

“It was her screams that got us this case. If she stays, maybe something like this won't happen again.”

Lockwood shook his head. “It wasn't Clara that got us involved. It was Fiona and Jennifer.”

“Ghosts aren't the problem here,” Holly murmured. “People are.”

“This culture is,” Lockwood added. “Unless there's someplace children like Clara could go, no amount of screaming ghosts will do anything to stop it.”

Lucy wrapped her arms tight around herself, shivering in the wind.

“He's right, you know,” the Skull remarked. “I've seen it too.”

“Is there something we can do?” Lucy asked it.

“You've done what you can,” the Skull said. “Look there.”

Lucy turned and saw Jennifer's little face in the window of the cafeteria. She looked all at once delighted and terrified.

“You made a difference already,” the Skull said.

“Yeah,” Lucy murmured.

But it didn't feel like enough.

…

Inspector Montagu Barnes wasn't surprised when Lockwood and Co called him with the kind of information that would shake London to its core. Anthony Lockwood was good at that kind of thing. However, when he arrived, he was surprised to find that the intrepid team of psychic investigators—for once—looked harried by the night's events. Barnes had seen them injured, had seen them burned and covered in dust, ghost-touched and otherwise, but he had never seen them look so worn. They looked exhausted.

Barnes crossed the street to meet them. “Lockwood,” he said by way of greeting.

As if Barnes had needed assurance to his doubts, they would have been cemented when Lockwood didn't greet him with a quippy remark. Instead, he answered only, “Inspector.” His voice was tight and strained, but he plastered on a smile the way someone puts a band-aid over an ugly cut.

Barnes regarded them and said only, “Tell me what happened.”

Lockwood began their tale, sparing no detail. Occasionally, Holly Munro or George Cubbins put in a word. Lucy Carlyle was largely silent during the exchange, her eyes focused somewhere in the middle distance. Listening to the facts, Barnes realized the events had weighed on her the most through her Talent of Touch. God, were all agents so young?

The black doors were propped open to allow the steady team of DEPRAC and police officers in and out. From inside, breaking ranks with the other children, a single green-clad waif darted to Lockwood's side. She clutched on his hand, her over-sized sleeve sliding down to show a bruise on her wrist.

“Jennifer,” Lucy said without missing a beat. “This is our friend, Inspector Barnes.”

Lockwood had told Barnes about Jennifer and Fiona, who was still unaccounted for. Barnes knelt to be level with the child. She regarded him with the distrustful ancient eyes of someone who had been betrayed, abandoned, and hurt by everyone they had ever loved.

“Hello Jennifer,” Barnes said in his smoothest voice. “I'm here to help you.”

“For real?” Jennifer said doubtfully.

“Really,” Lucy assured the girl.

“He'll get justice for Clara, too,” Lockwood said.

Barnes knew that actions spoke louder than words. Inside the Ragged School, there was a rise in the yelling and energy. He straightened up, neatening his mustache with one hand. “See for yourself,” he told them.

From within, a pair of police officers wrestled Headmistress Alessa Gillespie into a waiting cruiser. She stopped shouting when she spotted Lockwood and his team. Her eyes narrowed like the sights on a rifle, but she was shut up in the car before she could scream any threats.

Jennifer's face was lined with awe.

Lockwood, Lucy, Holly, and George all just looked tired.

Barnes beckoned a nearby female officer to join them. “Jennifer,” he said gently. “I'd like you to go with Officer Willis. She's here to help you.”

Jennifer glanced at Lucy, then Lockwood.

They nodded.

“Okay,” Jennifer said in a small voice. She took Officer Willis's hand and was led away to a waiting ambulance.

Barnes let his breath out heavily. “Head on home,” he said. “You can come in later to make your statements and I'll let you know if we find Fiona.”

Mechanically, Lockwood nodded.

Barnes placed a hand on the boy's shoulder and squeezed lightly. He felt Lockwood's bones beneath the heavy coat he always wore. “You did well,” he said. Then, he bustled to a waiting cab, leafed off some notes, and bid the driver to take them home.

…

Portland Row was the haven that it always was. Glowing like a beacon after a storm in the buttery post-dawn sunshine, it beckoned them into its arms. Lockwood opened the door and let his team inside. Everyone shucked their coats, dropped their bags, and put away their rapiers. Lucy paused to remove the Skull from her pack. It goggled at them, but there was something forcibly humorous about the expression on its face. It must have said something funny because Lucy cracked a little smile.

The sight rejuvenated Lockwood slightly. “Who's hungry?” he asked.

Holly shook her head. “I could do with some tea though.”

“I could eat,” George admitted.

Lucy tucked the Skull under her arm. “Once I smell food, I'll be starving.”

“I'll make French toast,” Lockwood offered.

Lucy opened the kitchen door and everyone piled in. She set the Skull on the counter, rolled up her sleeves, and said, “I'll help you.”

Before long, they were side-by-side at the range. Lockwood scrambled, dipped, and dusted with cinnamon while Lucy took charge of the cooking and flipping. Holly made tea and sliced some fruit. George cleaned the remnants of their dishes from the day before, sloshing bubbles to his elbows. Lockwood looked at the tower of French toast and declared it finished. Holly had already set the table, warmed the syrup, put out the butter, and poured everyone a glass of orange juice to go with breakfast.

They all sank down. Lockwood speared a slice as did Lucy and George. Holly nibbled a corner of her toast. However, once they started eating, the stress of the night soon caught up with them. They polished off the French toast and then sat back, stuffed to the gills. George groaned and Holly wiped her mouth.

“That,” Lucy said, “was the greatest thing I ever tasted.”

“You said that about Holly's banana waffles after the case at Jensen's Library,” George complained.

“They were good too,” Lucy said, “but these were better.”

“Because Lockwood made them,” the Skull taunted.

Lucy shot it a glare.

“Well,” Holly said, “I don't think I'll be able to sleep after that.”

“Me neither,” Lockwood agreed. “Who's up for a round of Monopoly?”

“No!” George protested. Dramatically, he grabbed Holly's arm. “Don't fall for it. Lockwood is a shark!”

“I'm a business man,” Lockwood said sharply. “Where do you think your paychecks come from? How about Clue, then?”

“Not a chance,” Lucy said shortly.

“Then you pick,” Lockwood snapped.

“How about cards?” Holly suggested. “Let's play Gin.”

“Yes,” George said with delight. “I can definitely beat Lockwood at that.”

Four rounds later, George had eaten those words and Lockwood was cleaning them all up.

“I yield,” Lucy said. “Lockwood, is there any game you're not good at?”

Lockwood smiled crookedly, tongue curled behind his teeth. “You'll just have to find out,” he teased.

Holly neatened up the cards and put them away. By then, it was lunchtime and Lockwood ordered takeaway despite the fact that they probably weren't going to be paid for their latest case. They all crowded around the kitchen table, swapping waxed Chinese food containers and squabbling over the eggrolls despite the fact that there was one for each of them.

Afterwards, they all stood together in the kitchen, stifling yawns.

“I guess,” Holly murmured, “that I should get going.”

“You don't have to go,” Lucy was quick to offer. “I've got some pajamas in your size if you want to try to take a nap.”

“You could take my bed,” Lockwood offered. “I'll crash on the couch.”

“I still don't think I can sleep,” Holly confessed, “but I'd like to stay, if you don't mind.”

“I'll get you some clothes,” Lucy said and hurried upstairs to fetch something particularly frumpy. She was giddy with the prospect of seeing Holly just a little less pressed than usual.

“I'll put new sheets on my bed, won't take but a moment,” Lockwood said.

“Oh no!” Holly protested. “I can't put you out of your bed. Please, just bring me the sheets and I'll make up the couch.”

“Nonsense,” Lockwood told her. “You can't stay on the couch.”

“If I decide to head home, I don't want to wake you when I leave,” Holly said firmly. “I'm taking the couch.”

“Better listen to her,” George said. “She's going to beat you senseless.”

Lockwood relented.

Lucy returned with a neatly-folded pajama set in plaid flannel along with some thick wool socks. “Here you go, Hol.”

Holly smiled warmly, took the clothes into the bathroom to change, and closed the door.

George and Lockwood returned to the kitchen to clean up while Lucy fetched some spare sheets. She started fluffing them over the couch, tucking them into the corners and smoothing them out. Holly joined her, wedging a throw pillow into a case and then draping out an afghan.

Lucy froze, thinking of how Lockwood had placed that blanket across Jennifer and Fiona.

“Lucy?” Holly asked.

“It's nothing,” Lucy said quickly. “I'm just tired.”

Lockwood and George came back into the parlor. Lockwood had the Skull under his arm and the Skull was making rude faces at the indignity of being carried.

“Looks comfy,” Lockwood remarked. “Last chance. You can have my bed.”

“I'm good,” Holly said with a smile.

“I'm beat,” George told them. He flicked the Skull's dome and was rewarded with an outraged expression. “I'm going to pass out. Wake me when it's time for breakfast and not a moment before.”

“Tell him if he flicks me again, he won't ever have to worry about breakfast,” the Skull muttered.

“Sleep well, George,” Lucy and Holly said in unison.

They watched him slog up the steps and disappear into that disaster he called a bedroom.

“Need anything else, Holly?” Lockwood asked.

“I'm fine,” she told him. “I might just make a cup of tea and try to relax.”

“You know where everything is,” he said. “Don't hesitate to wake me if you change your mind.”

Holly smiled and turned into the kitchen. There were the sounds of her clattering around for a mug and then running water.

Lockwood turned to Lucy and handed over the Skull. “Are you okay? Do you need anything?”

“I'll be okay,” she assured him. “It's not easy, but I'm not alone. I have Holly and George and the Skull and I... I have you.”

Lockwood's smile was soft like a candle lit in the darkness. “You do,” he said. “Whatever you need.”

Lucy bumped her shoulder against his. “Thanks.”

“Gag me,” the Skull muttered.

“I'm bushed,” Lucy said. “I'm going to shower and crash. Whoever wakes me up tomorrow had better have bacon, that's all I'm saying.”

“Goodnight Luce.”

“Night, Lockwood.”

Lucy carried the Skull up the stairs with her, set him on the windowsill, stripped out of her clothes, and kicked them into the dirty laundry pile. She regarded herself in the mirror on the closet door for a moment, examining her skin for bruises and bites. There was nothing, she was safe. Lucy showered, pulled on her pajamas, and crawled into bed.

…

Quill Kipps knew Inspector Montagu Barnes wasn't Lockwood's biggest fan. For that matter, neither was Kipps. Anthony Lockwood had a holier-than-thou attitude that was often tempered by his honest-to-god desire to do good. He cared about his teammates and civilians and relic-women and adults and even Kipps. He was the one who had given Kipps his goggles that allowed him to see ghosts, even at his advanced age of twenty-two. He was the one who brought Kipps on jobs when no one else would give him the time of day. Lockwood was annoying, but he was a stand-up guy.

All the same, Kipps fought a moment of concern when he received a message from Barnes in the early evening that said simply. 'I've wired you some money. Pick up some pizza and drinks—no beer—and bring it to Portland Row. Check in on them. It's been a rough night.' It was signed simply, 'Barnes.' There was no more information than that.

Kipps turned on the television and skimmed the paper, but Lockwood's name wasn't in the news. Kipps collected his essentials and struck out into the city as the sunlight faded. It was approaching dinnertime and the streets were starting to empty of civilians doing their end-of-day tasks. Kipps ducked into his favorite shop, ordered one pepperoni, one ham and pineapple, and one all-out-veggie pizza. He chose some bottles of soda, paid with Barnes's money, and found that he had enough leftover to get a container of ice cream. Loaded for bear, Kipps took a cab to Portland Row. He wasn't sure what to expect from Barnes's cryptic message.

The house looked quiet when he arrived with a few lamps burning inside. It wasn't dark enough that he believed they were all sleeping, but it didn't look bright enough for them to all be up. No music was playing, there were no voices, and they wouldn't have left lights on if they had gone out—would they? He rang the bell and stepped behind the iron line, waiting for someone to answer. Needless to say, he was shocked when Holly opened the door in what looked like borrowed pajamas. He had never seen Holly Munro look anything less than exceptional.

“Kipps?” she said by way of greeting and blearily rubbed her eyes even though it wasn't yet past seven. “What brings you here with—Is that pizza?”

Kipps could only nod.

Down the stairs behind her, Lockwood came striding out. He too was dressed in pajamas though it didn't really look like he had been sleeping. His floppy hair was even more mussed than usual and his dark eyes were red-rimmed. He belted a dressing gown around his slim hips and stepped up behind Holly. “Kipps,” he greeted. “What's this?”

“Regards from Barnes,” Kipps said. He found a measure of his usual tone and demanded, “Will you take something? These bottles are heavy.”

Lockwood and Holly immediately moved to help and ushered him inside.

Kipps realized that the couch had been made up with pillows and blankets. It looked like Holly had been lying there, reading and sipping cold tea in her pajamas. “Barnes mentioned that you'd had a rough night, but... what exactly happened?” he asked.

Lockwood shoved some things aside and set the pizzas on the cluttered kitchen table. “Let me rouse Lucy and George. We should eat while it's hot.”

“Right,” Kipps agreed.

Lockwood disappeared into the depths of the house.

Holly started setting the table, laying out plates and silverware and napkins. She filled glasses with ice and placed them before each setting. “Please, don't ask too many questions,” she said softly. “The case we just came off... it wasn't a good one. Lucy Touched something and we unearthed a child prostitution ring inside the Ragged School.”

Kipps's breath hitched. “No,” he heard himself say.

Holly nodded and tucked a sheet of hair behind her ear in a way that made her look like a little girl. “I'm sure it'll be on the news later,” she said. “The Headmistress was behind it.”

Kipps didn't get a chance to respond because Lockwood came back into the kitchen with Lucy and George in tow. George looked bleary enough to have managed a nap, but Lucy looked just like Lockwood and Holly—drawn and tired with rumpled hair and achy eyes. Her face was paler than he had ever seen it.

“Sit down,” Kipps said to them. “Dig in. It's on Barnes.”

“Barnes?” George asked as he pulled out a chair.

Rather than get into it, Kipps just shrugged. “When a man tells me to get pizza on his dime, I just do it.”

Everyone selected slices, catching strings of hot melted cheese and stray toppings with their fingers. George and Lucy made indecent noises when the food touched their lips. Lockwood and Holly were far more reserved though Lockwood chose a slice of ham and pineapple which Kipps found surprising.

“I'm shocked you didn't get beer,” Lucy muttered into her slice of pepperoni.

“I thought about it,” Kipps remarked, “but I didn't want to experience you all drunk.”

George snorted. “Betcha anything Lucy can't hold her liquor.”

“Me? I bet you're the first one to rip your top off and start dancing on the table,” she retorted.

“That would be Lockwood,” Holly said with a giggle behind her veggies.

Lockwood's lips curved into a grin. “What can I say?”

Kipps shook his head. He sat back and listened to them, seeing the subtle shifts in their mannerisms and interactions with each other. The events of the Ragged School had shaken them to their cores and he was sure that Holly had given him the neutered version. It was one thing to deal with the dead, to know that everything they had suffered was at least over, but another thing entirely to discover something terrible going on right now under the noses of society. It wasn't the first time an agency had uncovered something like this and it probably wouldn't be that last either.

After everyone was stuffed with cheesy carbs, Kipps realized why Barnes had asked _him_ of all people to stop by. Lockwood and Co didn't need a babysitter or a welfare check. What they needed was someone more unique than that. They needed to hear this from someone they (sort of) trusted.

“Hey, I brought ice cream too,” Kipps added, just to stave off the realization of what he needed to say.

George gave a whoop of joy. The first real smile that Kipps had seen flashed across his doughy face. “I'll scoop!”

Lucy flinched at the loud noise.

Lockwood noticed.

Holly didn't. “You will not,” she said firmly. “Get bowls. I will scoop.”

Grumbling, George did as she asked.

Holly grabbed the scoop and a handful of spoons. She started dividing the ice cream evenly until the small container was empty.

Lockwood pushed away from the table and pulled all manner of toppings from the cabinets. Soon, everyone had loaded their bowls with everything from nuts and sprinkles to hot fudge and caramel. Lockwood generously topped everything with whipped cream and cherries. Kipps stayed with nuts and fudge, passing on the whipped cream. Watching the others make their desserts, he was struck again by how young all agents were. It didn't seem fair.

“That,” George said and finished noisily scraping his bowl with his spoon, “was exactly what I needed.”

Lucy sat back with a sigh, her arms resting across her belly. Some color had returned to her cheeks and a faint smile traced her lips. “That hit the spot,” she said. “I'm surprised you finished that whole sundae, Holly.”

Holly smiled and licked her spoon. “Ice cream is my weakness.”

“Noted,” Lucy said with a grin.

Kipps started stacking the bowls together. “You should step outside. It's a beautiful night and the fresh air would do you some good.”

“That sounds good,” Holly said after a moment of thought. “Lucy, join me?”

Lucy looked like she wanted to protest, but relented. “Okay.”

George shook his head. “I've got some experiments that I want to check on downstairs in the office. I'll be right back.”

Before Lockwood could follow either group, Kipps said, “Tony, help me clean up.”

Something must have shown on his face because Lockwood didn't argue. Once the girls had stepped outside into the overgrown backyard with the twisted apple tree and George had disappeared downstairs, Kipps piled the bowls in the sink, turned on the water, and started washing. He figured what he had to say next would be easier for both of them if he wasn't looking at Lockwood.

“You,” Kipps began, “are a good leader, Tony. You really care about your people and your clients.”

“Of course,” Lockwood said quickly.

“And I know you think adult supervisors are useless.”

“What? You're not useless, Kipps,” Lockwood said with feigned shock. “Who told you that?”

Kipps let the barb slide. “But there's one thing adult supervisors have that you don't,” he said conversationally, “and that's access to professional training and support in regard to their teams.”

“Like what?” Lockwood asked, but there was no bite in his words. He just sounded tired and out of his depth.

Kipps finished up and set the bowls out to dry. Only now did he turn to face Lockwood. Again, he was struck by just how young Anthony Lockwood was. Though his height went a long way towards granting him posture and gravitas, he was just a teenager who had lost his entire family. All he had left was this house on Portland Row and his team.

“All adult supervisors are given classes on how to counsel their teams, how to provide a friendly and judgment-free ear after particularly rough cases,” Kipps explained.

“Professionals,” Lockwood repeated. He appeared to mull the word over. “Counseling... You think we need that?”

“I think,” Kipps said gently, “that dealing with things like this are difficult and everyone needs someone to talk to. Whether that someone is a professional or a friend, it isn't good to bottle up these feelings. Eventually, someone is going to snap.”

Lockwood wet his lips.

“Your team isn't just supplies and Talents,” Kipps murmured. “Your team is people, too. All I'm saying is when your rapier gets dull, you sharpen it. When your heart gets heavy, you should talk about it.”

Lockwood glanced at the closed doors—Holly and Lucy outside, George in their basement office.

“I just want you to know that I had that training too,” Kipps continued. “I'd be happy to listen if you need someone. If you feel you can't talk to me or you'd rather talk to someone else, I can make that happen. Okay? I just want you to know that I'm here to help you,” he added, “any of you.”

Lockwood rubbed his eyes. “I appreciate the offer,” he murmured. “I'll let them all know.”

“Please do, but next time, dinner's on you.”

Lockwood chuckled.

Kipps stood for a moment in the little kitchen with Lockwood before he gathered up the empty pizza boxes and ice cream container. “Well, I should get going and let you get back to bed,” he said. “You all look tired.”

“You could stay,” Lockwood offered.

Kipps glanced at the couch, made up for Holly. “That's okay,” he said. “I think you're at capacity here, but what I said stands. If you need something, anything, just give me a call. I'm used to staying up late so don't worry about waking me. Okay? Just let me know if you need something.”

Lockwood walked Kipps to the door and stood for a moment, silhouetted in the threshold. In the distance, a ghost-lamp winked on and off. It alternately cast Lockwood's face in shadow and illuminated his long features. Kipps lingered on the other side of the iron line, waiting.

It was in a moment of shadow that Lockwood said, “Thank you, Kipps.”

“Don't mention it,” Kipps said. “See you.”

It wasn't until later in the week that the broadcast aired and Kipps realized the full scope of the depravity that Lockwood's team had dealt with. Despite himself, he picked up takeaway and headed to Portland Row to check in on them. Upon finding them all together, supporting each other, he wasn't disappointed.

XXX

Questions, comments, concerns? 


	7. The Conversation

Ugh, my day at work was so stressful.

XXX

It was supposed to be a simple case.

Lockwood took it for just that reason, even though it was a Type One. There was a Cold Maiden haunting a stretch of docks where ships often needed to anchor when they came in from night fishing. A few fishermen had been ghost-touched already, though the incidents hadn't been fatal. They had pooled their money and were offering a modest payment for an agency to deal with the bothersome ghost so they could bring their ships in, dock, and then go to sleep without fear.

It was supposed to be simple.

Lockwood brought his whole team sans Kipps despite the fact that it was only a Cold Maiden. He figured they all needed to get back into the swing of things after the incident at the Ragged School. They all needed a simple case, an easy win to get their feet under them again. And so, Holly, George, Lucy, and he set off to diffuse the situation.

They arrived before nightfall, took some preliminary readings, and laid out a circle of iron chains just in case they needed them. The water lapped quietly against the docks, the ropes anchoring a few boats sighed, and there were distant cries from seagulls. It wasn't too warm, wasn't to cold, wasn't overcast. The moon was full and the stars were dialed up to full-shine. All in all, it was a beautiful clear night for a case.

Lockwood said as much to Lucy as they took a walk down the dock, looking for the Cold Maiden.

“It is,” she said with a smile that pinched when the Skull said something rude and she retorted, “Shut up or I'll pitch you in the Thames!”

Lockwood chuckled. “What'd he say?”

“You don't want to know.”

“Go ahead,” the Skull said in Lucy's inner ear. “Tell him how good he looks in the moonlight.”

“I said, shut up,” Lucy repeated.

They neared the edge of the dock where Lockwood had sighted the Cold Maiden's Death Glow earlier. The glow was faint but persistent. Lockwood slowed to look at it again, squinting against the brightness. Lucy's Sight wasn't half as good as his and she didn't see much. She idly kicked a pebble into the river.

“Hear anything?” Lockwood asked.

“Nothing,” Lucy said.

Lockwood straightened up and peered over the river. They stood for a moment, shoulders almost touching, looking at the lights of London. It really was a pretty night. Lockwood opened his mouth to speak and then caught a glimpse of the Cold Maiden from the corner of his eye. He snapped fully to face her in an instant, hand going for his rapier. Then, he froze.

Lucy turned to look when he moved. “Lockwood, what—”

It was too late to stop her from looking. Even with her poor Sight, the Cold Maiden's form was clear. The young woman was thick-boned and short. Her hair was wound in tight curls around her heavy face. Dark marks, maybe running makeup or bruises, streaked down her cheeks. Her mouth was smudged and swollen. Her clothes—or what was left of them—hung off her exposed body. She was almost completely nude, wrists and ankles showing bruises. Was that darkness on her thighs blood or just a shadow? Lockwood supposed he would never know.

Lucy froze, her hand trembling an inch from her rapier. She just stared at the Cold Maiden.

Lockwood saw the ghost's lips move.

It looked like she said, 'Why?'

Lockwood didn't waste any more time. He slashed the Cold Maiden in half with his rapier without giving her a chance to attack. Her form faded, the light sinking down into the boards. Lockwood knelt quickly and combed the area. There, wedged between the boards, was a simple silver band. It wasn't a ring, more like part of a purse or keychain. It was icy under his fingers and he quickly stuffed it into a silver net and stowed it in his pouch.

“Luce?” he asked.

She flinched when he reached out to her. For a moment, her eyes were wild. Then, she said, “I'm sorry. I just... I froze. Did it look like she'd been—no, it doesn't matter now. You found the Source, right?”

Lockwood nodded. “It's safe now.”

“I'm so sorry,” Lucy said. She brought her finger to her mouth as though to gnaw it, caught herself, and lowered it. “I don't know what happened.”

“Luce,” Lockwood said gently. “I know you said you're okay, but... have you considered taking Kipps up on his offer?”

Lucy's eyes slid to the ground. “I have, but I... I'm not ready to talk about it.”

“There's no shame in talking about what happened, Luce, about what you felt when you Touched Clara's bed,” Lockwood said as gently as he could. “Holly went to talk to Kipps. She can go with you if you want or I can. Anything you need and we'll find a way to make it work.”

“I said I'm not ready, Lockwood,” Lucy protested. “When I am, you'll be the first to know. I'm sorry that I wasn't quick enough to subdue the Cold Maiden. I'll be faster next time.” She whirled away from him, making as though to flee.

Lockwood snagged her hand, pulling her back around to face him.

Lucy wouldn't meet his eyes. Her skin was so cold that his touch felt like a brand.

“I'm worried about you, Luce,” Lockwood confessed. “I don't mean to pressure you. I'm just worried.”

“I know,” she said softly. “But that doesn't make it easier. I just... I'm not ready.”

Silence stretched between them. The water lapped, a gull cried, and a buoy rang softly.

“We should go back,” Lucy said. “Holly and George will worry.”

Lockwood let her hand slip from his. “Right, of course,” he agreed.

They walked back to the circle of chains to meet up with the others. Somehow, even though they were victorious, it didn't feel like a win. It was supposed to be an easy case, but nothing was easy anymore.

What Lucy had seen and felt in the Ragged House still weighed on her. It felt impossible to start lifting those weights off her shoulders. Even though she wanted to take Kipps up on his offer to talk, what she had felt from Clara's Touch was personal and intimate. It didn't feel like something she should talk about and she knew that was wrong. Even so, knowing didn't make it any easier.

…

It wasn't the best part of London, hence why there were so many ghosts and so few ghost-lamps to keep them at bay. Lucy had fled from a Changer and gotten separated from the others. She was running low on salt bombs and completely out of magnesium flares. Her rapier was heavy and cold, even through her gloves, steaming with ectoplasm. She turned down another alley, hoping something would look familiar.

Nothing did.

“Skull?” she asked.

There was no answer from her bag.

Everything around her was eerily silent.

“Skull?” she whispered. Then, even knowing that her loud voice would alert the Changer to her location, she shouted, “Lockwood! Holly! George! Kipps?”

She heard heavy footsteps running up the alley behind her. Relief softened her bones. She nearly sagged, allowing her rapier to tilt down to the pavement. She turned to face her comrade, because what ghost made loud fast-paced footsteps like that? She was happy not to be alone anymore.

However, when she turned, there was no one there. The alley was deserted.

“Hello?” she asked and pointed her rapier at the empty alley.

“I'd run if I were you,” the Skull said suddenly. “Unless you _want_ what's coming next.”

“What's coming?” Lucy whispered. The tip of her rapier quivered, stabbing into the dark.

The Skull didn't answer.

Then, unseen hands slammed Lucy against the bricks. She cried out in pain and surprise, flailing with her rapier. It swished, but struck nothing. She fumbled for a salt grenade and threw it at her feet. Nothing happened. Hands continued gripping her shoulders, her waist, her naked wrist above her glove.

The touch wasn't cold. It was warm—it was alive.

“Lockwood!” Lucy screamed.

“Shut up,” someone hissed.

Lucy's mind went blank. She knew that voice. She had heard it before.

The smell assaulted her. The stink of fear-sweat and iron and salt that permeated the mattress in the Ragged School.

“You may have stopped Alessa, but you didn't get us all,” Clara's rapist snarled. “You didn't stop me.”

“No,” Lucy whimpered. Her fingers went numb and her rapier slipped from her hand.

It clattered noisily.

The assailant spun Lucy around, slamming her backwards so her head bounced off the bricks. Stars exploded in her vision. His hot hands jerked her coat open. The buttons flew, spinning away into the dark. Cool night air kissed her exposed chest.

Lucy fought blindly, trying to bring her hands up to cover herself and push him away at the same time. His hands multiplied. He was able to pin her wrists and pinch her breasts with rough fingers at the same time. He laughed, he reeked, he pawed at her.

Lucy squirmed and twisted. She heard a rip and then her skirt was gone. Her leggings shredded and her boots disappeared. Completely bare, she was pressed roughly into the wall of the alley. Stinking breath filled her lungs. A rough hand pressed between her legs.

“You want this, don't you? You're we—”

Lucy didn't wake screaming. She had nightmares often enough that she knew better, but her eyes flew open and she jerked upright. Her heart was pounding and her breath was coming in pants. Shakily, she peeled back the covers and got out of bed. She raked her hands through her hair and then pulled hard enough to make her eyes water.

The Skull regarded her from the windowsill. “It was a nightmare,” he told her. “Just breathe in, hold it, let it out.”

Lucy fumbled to obey, staring at the flickering other-light inside the silver-glass jar until she didn't feel like screaming anymore. Then, she sank down on her bed and put her head in her hands. Tears prickled behind her lids, but she blinked them back. Now that her sweat had cooled, she was chilled.

“You know I'm not the biggest fan of Lockwood,” the Skull said softly, “but you should talk to him.”

“I can't,” Lucy said into her lap. “It feels... wrong.”

“What's _wrong_ is you suffering in silence,” the Skull told her. “That's what allowed things to go on at that school for so long.”

Lucy looked through her fingers at him.

The face within the swirling ectoplasm was calm and focused. The Skull might have been handsome in life if this portrayal was anything to go by.

“I was alive longer than you,” the Skull continued, “and I've been dead a lot longer than that. I've seen some things that you can't even imagine. I know what I'm talking about, Lucy. You need to talk to someone about this.”

“I talk to you,” Lucy murmured.

“And how's that helping?” the Skull asked.

Lucy didn't admit that it wasn't.

“Talk to one of them,” the Skull insisted. “Or so help me, I'll figure out a way to do it myself.”

It wasn't the Skull's threat that brought Lucy to her feet. It was his heavy concern.

“In the morning,” she promised.

“No. Now, Miss Procrastination,” the Skull said.

“I can't now,” Lucy said. “Everyone's asleep.”

“No, they aren't,” the Skull told her. “You don't honestly think you're the only one who gets nightmares, do you?”

With that, the Skull retreated into his Source. The greenish light winked out. The worn brown skull gazed at her with vast empty sockets.

Shivering, Lucy drew her robe around her shoulders and padded downstairs. As the Skull had said, there was a faint light glowing in the front parlor. Lucy tiptoed down the hall, avoiding the squeaky board at the bottom of the stairs, and peeked inside. Lockwood was seated on the couch. A photo album was lying open in his lap, but he wasn't looking at it. There was a mug of tea on the table, but it was either empty or had cooled for no steam rose from it. Lucy wondered how long Lockwood had been up.

Purposefully, she tread on a creaky board.

Lockwood turned to see who was up and smiled faintly when he saw her. “Hey Luce. Can't sleep?”

She shook her head.

“Want tea? I'll make you a cup.”

“No thanks.”

Lockwood's dark eyes were concerned as he studied her. His face reminded her of the Skull. “Everything alright?”

Lucy swallowed the knot in her throat. “No,” she admitted.

Lockwood closed the album and sat up to face her fully. “What happened?”

Drawn in by his concern, Lucy slipped into the parlor and sat down on the couch beside him. She raked her bare toes against the carpet so she wouldn't have to look him in the eyes. “I still have nightmares,” Lucy admitted, “about Clara.”

“That's understandable,” Lockwood said softly.

Lucy's breath rattled. “I just... I feel disconnected from it.”

Lockwood nodded.

“But... isn't that normal? I mean, it didn't really happen to me,” Lucy said. “I felt it when I Touched her things, but it happened to Clara, not me. Why should it upset me so much?”

“I've talked to Kipps,” Lockwood said softly. “And he says that every agent deals with Touch differently. Luce, you are so sensitive and kind that I always worry about you opening yourself to ghosts. I don't want to see what they went through hurt you, but everyone is different. You have to do something that works for you, whatever that might be.”

Lucy reached for him, hesitated, and started to pull away. “You talked to Kipps?”

Lockwood held out his hand, palm up, fingers loosely curled. “Yeah. I wanted to know how best to help my team, how to help you.”

Lucy slipped her hand into his, smoothing her fingertips over his wrist. She could feel his slow even pulse. “What is this?” she murmured. “I should be repulsed by touch, shouldn't I? But I just want contact all the time. I feel so alone. I mean, I always have the Skull and I have you, but I feel... lonely.”

Lockwood squeezed her hand. “You're not alone. I'm here. We're all with you,” he said. “If you need this or a hug or anything, you can just ask.”

Lucy rasped her thumb over the pulse in his wrist. “Lockwood?”

“Yes?”

“Can you hug me now?”

“Of course.”

Lockwood shifted a little on the couch. Anyone else would have been uncertain of how to touch and where to put their hands, but Lockwood was nothing if not confident. He didn't worry about it, trusting that Lucy would say something if she needed him to embrace her differently. He put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her into him, tucking her chin over his shoulder and pressing his hand into the middle of her back. Their legs bumped awkwardly, but he left it to Lucy to arrange herself.

She let her breath out in a rush and melted bonelessly into his arms. She tucked her legs over his knee, wrapped her arms around his back, and squeezed. Lockwood ran his hand up and down her back, reaching the edges of her short hair. He twisted the cool silken strands between his fingers and felt the knobs of her spine under his palm. Lucy's fingers dug into him, but the desperation eased from her the longer she held on. Her chin started off jabbing into his shoulder, but soon she was resting her head against his.

Lockwood lost track of how long they sat like that. It was warm and comfortable. He could feel Lucy relaxing in his arms by centimeters, her body growing heavy and limp. Her breathing evened out and her heart stopped pounding. She made a soft sound of relief and moved slightly. She pulled back and smiled at him, her cheeks tinged pink.

“Sorry,” she said. “I didn't meant to hold on so long.”

“It's absolutely fine,” Lockwood told her. He let his hands trail against her back as she put a little space between them. “This wasn't a one-time offer, Luce. Whenever you need something, just let me know, okay?”

She nodded and carefully eased herself off the couch. “I'm going to head back to bed,” she said. “Big day tomorrow, case and all that. You should get some sleep too, Lockwood.”

“I will.”

“Goodnight,” Lucy said.

“Goodnight,” Lockwood answered.

Lucy crept back upstairs and slipped into her room.

The Skull was waiting up, glowing and looking like a parent. “Well?”

“I feel much better,” she told him.

“You look better,” the Skull remarked. “Now, go back to sleep so that I can get my beauty rest.”

Lucy curled in her bed, pulling the covers around her shoulders tightly. She shut her eyes and drifted off, recalling the warmth and pressure of Lockwood's arms around her. For the first time since the case at the Ragged School, she managed to sleep without nightmares. Though she wasn't foolish enough to believe that everything would go back to normal, it at least finally felt like she had taken the first step.

XXX

This was originally the ending that I had planned, but now you have three more chapters to look forward to!

Questions, comments, concerns?


	8. The Fallout

The last chapter was originally supposed to be the last, but I had more to say.

XXX

In the next two weeks, Lucy felt like she put the events of the Ragged School behind her. Her nightmares came with less frequency, she felt energized, and she was happy. She finally started to feel like herself again. She caught Lockwood smiling at her when he thought she wasn't looking and that made her feel all sorts of tingly on the inside. She felt better, renewed, free of Clara's suffering.

The case they had the night before had been easy, but the ghost was slippery and they had expended a lot of salt grenades. Lucy had agreed to go shopping with Lockwood to replenish their supplies. Holly had the day off and George had taken a rare trip to the countryside to visit his mum. Kipps was off doing whatever it was he did when they weren't around. The day was bright and cloudless.

It all seemed perfect.

Then, out of nowhere, Lucy smelled it—the stink of sweat and iron and salt. It passed through her like a cold spot, surging up from within like bile. She swallowed a sudden hot bulge in her throat and looked around. Men were all around her, shopping, laughing, carrying on with their wives and children. How many of them had been to the Ragged School? Which of them had touched Clara?

With icy certainly, Lucy suddenly knew he was there. She had smelled him.

Her heart constricted.

“Luce?” Lockwood's voice was wobbly and broken. It seemed to be coming from far away. “Lucy?”

She opened her mouth to answer him, to tell him that Clara's assailant was here, to say that she wanted to leave, to tell him she needed him to hold onto her in case she flew away—but no sound came out. Lucy croaked. Her mouth was a desert, her throat filled with sand.

Lockwood's dark eyes swam before her, lined with concern beneath the shadow of his hair. “Luce, what's wrong? What is it?”

She saw his lips move, but it was like how he couldn't hear the Skull. There was no sound, there was nothing. She heard only the rushing blood in her ears, the pounding of her heart, the heaving of her lungs. Her chest was tight and her palms were wet. Her skin tingled, stretched taut. Her body felt too big for her skin, pressing out.

“Luce?”

Something crunched under Lucy's foot when she stepped back. Her ankle rolled and the little twinge of pain shot through her like a bolt. Was that a salt bomb? Were they on a case? Were they in the Ragged School? Yes, they must be. They were still trying to solve the case. They were trying to get to the bottom of it.

Lucy knew that wasn't right.

She opened her mouth to ask Lockwood, but only a gasp came out.

Lockwood had dropped his bags to reach for Lucy. She shied from him, stepping backwards, stumbling when her feet broke open the salt bombs. She looked about to fall and Lockwood grasped her shoulder. He could feel her shaking, see the pulse jumping in her throat, hear her tight panicked breaths. She was going to hyperventilate and pass out.

“Luce?” he tried again.

She stared at him, her eyes wide and wild. She looked like she either didn't hear or didn't understand him.

“Luce?” he repeated.

A bystander approached—a young man in a waiter's uniform. “Hey, man, everything okay here?”

Lucy turned her huge eyes on him. She gasped, her nostrils flared.

Lockwood felt her shiver under his palm. He tightened his grip, suddenly terrified that she was going to start running and that he wouldn't be able to catch up with her. “No, everything is not fine,” he said. “Can you hail me a cab please?”

“I don't know,” the waiter said suspiciously. “I don't think I should let you go with her.”

“She's my associate,” Lockwood interrupted. Of all the times for a Good Samaritan to take interest in them, it had to be now—when Lucy needed help. “We're agents. Look, here's my card. Please, just get me a cab.”

Whether it was his card or his demeanor, the waiter agreed and headed away. Luckily, the shopping center was crowded with cabs and one arrived within a minute. The waiter scooped up all the salt grenades, even the ones that had broken open, back into the shopping bag and handed it over.

“Thanks,” Lockwood said. “Lucy, we need to go back to Portland Row, okay.”

Lucy was gasping for breath now. Her eyes were glazed and her hands were curled into fists. She moved like an old woman, stiff and stooped. Her body was as cold as if she'd been ghost-touched.

Lockwood eased her into the backseat and climbed quickly in after her. He gave the cabbie their address. Then, he shrugged out of his coat and wrapped the thick fabric around her. Lucy didn't seem to notice nor did she pull it tight even though she was shivering now. She slumped against Lockwood's side, staring at nothing, breathing raggedly. Lockwood rubbed her arms, concern making him grip her harder than necessary.

“Is she okay?” the cabbie asked. “Should I drive to the hospital?”

“No, just take us to Portland Row, please.”

When the car ground to a halt, Lockwood paid the cabbie, guided Lucy out, and forgot their shopping completely. He ushered her in the front door, passed the couch, and into the kitchen. She was still staring, frozen, breathing hard even after he helped her sit down. Lockwood gently clasped her cheeks, tapping his palm gingerly against her skin. He couldn't bring himself to slap her. He didn't even think that would help.

“Kipps,” he realized suddenly. He rushed to the phone and dialed.

It seemed to ring forever before Kipps answered, “Hullo.”

“Kipps,” Lockwood blurted. “It's Lucy.”

“Tony. What happened?”

“I don't know,” Lockwood said. He paced between Lucy and the counter, uncertain, gripping the phone with white knuckles. “We were shopping and then she just stopped. She didn't say anything but she went stiff. She's breathing like she was running and she won't answer me. I don't know what to do. I don't know how to help her.”

“Sounds like she's having a panic attack,” Kipps said.

“A panic attack?” Lockwood's heart thudded against his ribs, but he forced himself steady. It wouldn't do Lucy any good if he freaked out. “What can I do?”

“Make her feel safe and secure. Keep her warm. Block out negative stimuli,” Kipps suggested. “Try letting her smell something familiar or rub some lavender-water into her pulse points.”

“What if I can't make it stop?” Lockwood asked.

“Don't think like that. You can make it stop. You can help her. You can do this,” Kipps said. “Put the phone down, don't hang up, just set it down. Then, start trying to help her. Talk to Lucy softly. The most important part is to get her breathing normally. That'll help you too. Take a deep breath, Tony. It will be okay.”

Lockwood inhaled and swallowed. He hadn't realized that he was gasping. “Right, okay. I'm doing it.” He set the phone down on the counter and turned his attention back to Lucy.

She was slumped in her chair, eyes bugged, chest heaving.

Lockwood pulled his coat tighter around her shoulders, bundling her up in what he hoped was the familiar scent of home. He took her hands and found that her fingers were cold. He rubbed them gently between his palms and then brought her hand to his chest. He pressed it over his heart, securing it flush against him with one hand.

“Luce,” he said. “Can you hear me? I need you to breathe with me, okay? Just like this, in and out.” His heart was pounding, but his chest rose and fell beneath her palm. “Luce, please, breathe with me.”

Lucy stared at the fridge for a long moment, her eyes unfocused.

Lockwood continued talking, intermittently whispering and then speaking at a regular volume. His throat felt dry and thick.

Slowly, so slowly that Lockwood wondered if he was imagining it, she turned her head to look at him. Her fingers twitched. They were warm now, captured against his chest and interlaced with his free hand. She took a deep breath and Lockwood realized that it matched his own.

“That's it,” he said with relief. “That's it. Breathe with me, Luce. You can do it.”

Her eyes met his. She breathed in, held it with him, let it out when he did.

Lockwood stifled the urge to sob. “That's it,” he said instead. “Thank god.”

Lucy breathed with him for several minutes. More and more color returned to her face. Her eyes brightened, her skin warmed, and her pulse evened out. Before long, she looked around at the familiar kitchen with confusion. She squeezed Lockwood's hand. “What happened? Weren't we shopping?”

“What's the last thing you remember?” Lockwood asked.

“I don't know. We were at Mullet's and then we left and I... Oh god, I smelled something.”

Lockwood searched his memory, but couldn't recall anything standing out. “What?”

Lucy's hand shook and she clasped a hand to her mouth. “It was the same smell as Clara's bed in the Ragged School—sweat and iron and salt.”

She looked about to slide into another panic attack so Lockwood squeezed her hand as hard he he dared. “Hey, hey,” he said. “You're safe. I brought you home. It's okay. Just breathe.”

Lucy shuddered. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I'm sorry. I don't know what happened.”

“Hold on,” Lockwood said. “Let me just grab the phone. I didn't know what to do so I called Kipps.”

Embarrassment swelled under Lucy's ribs. “You called him?”

“You were completely unresponsive, Luce,” Lockwood said softly. “I didn't know what to do.” He scooped up the phone and put it to his ear. “Kipps, are you still there? Yeah, Lucy came back to us. Hold on, I'll ask her.” Lockwood put his hand over the receiver. “Will you talk to Kipps? I can put him on speaker phone.”

Lucy shook her head.

“She doesn't want to,” Lockwood said. He listened for a long moment, worried eyes moving between Lucy and some point over the kitchen table. He made affirmative sounds as Kipps gave him instructions. “Okay, I will. I'll call if I need you. You'll be the first to know.” With that, Lockwood hung up.

“What did Kipps say?” Lucy asked. She pulled Lockwood's coat tight around her shoulders. She hadn't realized that she was swathed inside it.

“That I should make you feel safe, get you something light to eat or drink if you want it, let you talk about it if you want to. He said to give you the power, to let you decide what to do next.”

Lucy shivered. Sweat had cooled all over her body. “I just want to get cleaned up,” she said softly.

“Okay,” Lockwood said. “I can run you a bath. Would you like that?”

“There isn't a tub upstairs,” she said.

“You can use my bathroom,” he offered. “There's a tub in there.”

The thought of climbing the stairs to her attic was bleak. Lucy nodded without looking too hard at her reasons.

“Okay,” Lockwood said. He seemed better now that he had something to do. “Do you want to come with me or wait here?”

“I'll come.”

“Right, easy now.”

Lockwood tilted her out of her chair and helped her up the first flight of stairs. Unlike the bio-hazard bin that was George's bedroom and the explosion of clothes that was Lucy's, Lockwood's space was pristine. His large bed was neatly-made, his clothes were all put away, and his books were shelved. There were very few personal effects out on his dresser, just a single family photo in a silver frame and a man's ring. Lockwood guided Lucy to sit on the bed and she focused on looking around. It was easier to ignore what had just happened than look directly at it.

Lockwood bustled into the attached bathroom and started running water. A moment later, Lucy could smell the faint aroma of lavender and she breathed deeply. The band of tightness behind her eyes loosened and she took a deep breath. Lockwood emerged from the bathroom and paused to study her.

“Do you want anything to eat or drink?” he asked. “Water or tea maybe?”

“Tea would be lovely,” Lucy answered.

“As soon as you're settled, I'll fetch you some. Do you mind if I go in your room to get you some clean clothes?”

Lucy shook her head. She tugged Lockwood's coat around her neck. She was suddenly so tired.

“It'll just be a minute while the tub fills,” Lockwood said softly. He came to sit beside her.

Lucy tilted into him, resting her cheek on his shoulder.

They sat together in silence. Without intending to, Lucy matched her breathing to his. She felt heavy, exhausted, the way she did after a grueling case. She closed her eyes and just breathed, inhaling the familiar scents of lavender and Lockwood. She felt him tentatively touch her wrist and then intertwine their fingers.

“Luce?” he murmured.

She hmmed.

“It's ready, okay?”

“Okay.”

Lockwood tugged Lucy to her feet and guided her into the dimly-lit bathroom. There was a deep claw-foot porcelain tub filled to the brim with hot water, the linen curtain pushed back. Bubbles floated on the surface and lavender candles flickered from the vanity. Lockwood had laid out a fluffy towel.

“Just get in and soak,” he said. “I'll be back with tea and a change of clothes.”

“Okay.”

After he left, Lucy mechanically pulled off her clothes and stepped into the water. It was heaven on earth. The porcelain was warm and the tub was deep enough that the water covered her shoulders. All around her, she could smell Lockwood and lavender. Her lungs emptied of the horrific stink that had started this. She tipped her head back and closed her eyes.

There was a knock against the threshold.

“Luce?” Lockwood called. “I've got your tea and your clothes. Can I come in? I won't look.”

Lucy turned slightly in the tub so her breasts were pressed against the side, hidden, even though the bubbles covered her. “Yeah,” she said. “Come in, Lockwood.”

He crept in like a shadow, handed her the mug, and set the clothes down on the vanity beside the candles. “Do you feel better?”

She accepted the tea and took a sip. It was sweetened with honey and cooled to the perfect temperature. “Yes, thank you.”

“Should I leave?”

“No,” Lucy murmured. “Please stay.”

Lockwood's throat flashed as he swallowed, but he didn't protest. To avoid the temptation to look at her, he sat down on the floor beside the tub. Now, he would have to crane his neck to look into the water. Lucy leaned her head against the porcelain right beside him, cradling the mug, sipping occasionally.

“I keep thinking,” she confessed, “that if Clara had had someone like you, she wouldn't have killed herself.”

Lockwood looked at her, his gaze deep and sad. “I know.”

“I'm grateful, Lockwood,” Lucy murmured. “I'm so grateful.” A tear slipped down her cheek.

Lockwood cupped her face in his hands, thumbs stroking away another escaped tear. “Don't ever forget that I'm here, Lucy,” he murmured. “I don't like to see you hurting. I want to help. Next time, please, try to talk to me before it gets this bad.”

She nodded, crying freely now.

Lockwood rested his forehead against hers. “I don't want to pressure you, Luce, but Kipps had a good point earlier. He knows people who have been trained to handle these kinds of scenarios. I'm happy to help you, I am—but I'm not trained for it. I don't want to make a mistake with you and make something worse.”

Lucy sniffled.

“Will you please consider going to talk to someone? I'll go with you or Holly can, whatever you want, but... I think you need this.”

“Okay,” she said. It was easy to agree in the soft light of the lavender candles. She knew in the harsh light of day, she would find Clara's memories and feelings just as hard to talk about as always, but she didn't like seeing Lockwood worried for her any more than he liked worrying about her. If she couldn't talk to someone for herself, maybe she could do it for him. “Okay.”

…

Taking the cab with Lucy to her first counseling session and waiting outside for her to finish was one of the hardest things Anthony Lockwood had ever done—and he faced ghosts for a living. He had walked on the Other Side with little more than a feathered cape for protection. He had been ghost-touched. He had faced down a hungry spirit with only his rapier, he had climbed down into a gaping hole without knowing what lay at the bottom, he had leaped into the Thames, and he had braved George's room. Nothing was so scary as waiting.

When Lucy came out of the little well-furnished office, she was pale and her eyes were red-rimmed, but she smiled when she saw him.

Lockwood was on his feet immediately, arms opening to hold her, but he stopped himself before he touched her. “Are you okay?”

Lucy nodded and closed the space between them. She folded herself into his chest, sliding her arms underneath his coat, burrowing into the warmth of it.

Lockwood gripped her tightly, meeting the eyes of the therapist—Doctor Diana Watson, a lovely red-haired woman of uncertain age—with a question.

“It will take time,” Dr Watson explained. “This was only our first session. Results don't come overnight, but Lucy has an excellent support group, one of the best I've ever seen.”

Lucy sniffled against Lockwood's shoulder and then withdrew to stand at his side. “Thank you, Dr Watson,” she said and her voice was strong. “I'll see you next week.”

Dr Watson smiled warmly. “I'm looking forward to it.”

Lockwood and Lucy exited the office together and stood blinking in the warm sunlight.

“Shall we walk?” Lucy asked.

It wasn't far back to Portland Row. To be honest, Lockwood desperately needed to let out some of his nervous energy and readily agreed. They fell into step beside each other, boots hitting the sidewalk evenly. Lucy's hand occasionally brushed his, but she didn't move to take it. She turned her face to the sun as she walked, smiling faintly. It was the best Lockwood had seen her look since the Ragged School.

“Dr Watson recommends 'rhythmic movement' to make me feel more connected,” Lucy said after a while. “I asked her if fencing counted.”

“What'd she say?”

“Yes,” Lucy said. “I was wondering if you'd train with me in the mornings and afternoons, provided we don't have a case. You're the best fencer I know and I could use the practice.”

“Of course,” Lockwood agreed readily.

“There's one other thing she recommended,” Lucy said. A slight blush colored high on her cheeks.

“What?”

“Massage,” Lucy admitted. “She said it would be good for me to reacclimatize to human touch again.”

Lockwood scratched the back of his neck. “Well, I've never given a massage before but I could try it.”

“You see, Lockwood,” Lucy hesitated and then plowed on, “You've done so much for me. I was wondering if I could do it for you instead.”

Lockwood glanced at her from the corner of his eyes. “If this is about repaying me in some way, you don't have to—”

“No,” Lucy interrupted. “It's not about that. I just... I want to do something. I want to touch you. If—if you don't mind, that is. You don't have to, if you don't want—of course you don't!”

Lockwood grasped her hand and pulled her to a stop. “I didn't say that,” he said. “I just want to make sure you're doing this for the right reasons.”

“Because I want to,” Lucy told him assuredly, “nothing more than that.”

Lockwood smiled and it was so bright that Lucy thought it blocked out the sun. That was a classic Lockwood smile and she hadn't realized how long it had been since she'd seen it. He had been so worried about her, about Holly and George, about all of them.

“Then who am I to refuse?” he asked brightly.

Lucy smiled in return.

…

Lockwood was a panther when he fenced. He was graceful and light on his feet, not a movement wasted or a hair out of place. At first, going through the prescribed motions with him made Lucy feel ungainly and useless. They weren't sparring with Floating Joe and Esmeralda after all and that was what Lucy was used to. These delicate katas mixed with breathing exercises were foreign, but Lockwood's rapier was an extension of his arm and he didn't seem to have any trouble mastering them right away.

However, Lucy pushed through those feelings of inadequacy and soon found that these were her favorite parts of the day. The simple movements made Lockwood look as relaxed as she wanted to feel doing them. He quietly breathed with her, moved with her, felt with her. They were closer than ever, almost able to reach the other's mind, which was helpful both on cases and in the moments before a panic attack crept up on Lucy. Though they came fewer and farther each day, all it took was a moment for the rug to be yanked out from under her feet.

They finished up, ending with their rapiers at their side and their weight shifted forward on their toes. Lockwood glistened with sweat, his dark hair mussed but his eyes bright with mirth, and Lucy wanted to tangle her fingers in his tresses and pull him close. Instead, she offered something a little more tame.

“How about that massage?” she asked.

Lockwood looked hesitant for a just a moment. Though they had taken Dr Watson's advice about regular exercise almost immediately, Lucy hadn't brought up her desire to give him a massage since her first session. That was almost two weeks ago, but Lockwood had a kink in his neck that he couldn't seem the shake and the offer wasn't unwelcome since he knew Lucy's reasons behind it.

“Sure,” he agreed. “Let me just grab a shower first.”

“If you want,” Lucy said. “I don't mind.”

“But,” Lockwood murmured. The scent of sweat was one of her triggers. While there was little they could do about the scents of iron and salt in their line of work, they could at least do their best to avoid one of the smells that bothered her. He gestured helplessly at himself.

“I don't mind,” she repeated. “I know it's you.”

The words struck deep in Lockwood's chest, hanging there like a swirl of embers. “If you're sure.”

“I'm sure.”

“Where should we...?”

There was a comfortable couch in the upstairs parlor that felt more neutral than going to Lockwood's bedroom or traipsing all the way to the attic where Lucy slept. Putting away their rapiers, they climbed the steps in single file and emerged in the kitchen. The sunlight was fading. George would be back from the archive soon, but they had at least an hour.

“The parlor?” Lucy asked.

Lockwood nodded.

He followed her there, trailing behind like a waif. Lucy stood beside the couch, waiting for him to make himself comfortable. He loitered for a moment, but the twinge in his neck was insistent and he didn't want to make things awkward for Lucy. He lay down on his front, arms folded beneath his head and face turned against the pillow.

“Comfy?” Lucy asked.

“Yeah.”

Lucy had been doing her own research on how to give a good massage with the same fervor that George looked into hauntings. Now, she finally had a chance to show Lockwood that she was just as concerned for him as he was about everyone else. She wanted to make sure he was taking care of himself along with them. She rolled up her sleeves and stepped into the space beside the couch. Immediately, the awkward angle made itself known.

“Lockwood?” she asked.

“Yeah?”

“Do you mind if I climb up?”

“No, no, whatever you need.”

Lucy placed a knee on either side of his slim hips and hoisted herself up. She was careful not to put her weight on him and didn't give either of them time to think about her new position. Instead, she immediately started light. She ran her hands up and down his back, warming his muscles with friction over his shirt. He was tense, his shoulders knotted and his lower back straining. He kept his eyes closed. Lucy started at the bottom and began working her way up.

Lockwood groaned and she smiled. She could feel the heat of his skin through his thin shirt. She rubbed and kneaded, pressing her thumbs and the tips of her fingers into his back. Her hands were strong and rough from fencing, but he didn't seem to mind. In fact, he appeared to appreciate every second of it. He squirmed and writhed, pressing and pushing into her touches like a cat. She found a lump beneath his shoulder blade, dug her thumb in, and felt it crunch.

Lockwood whimpered in bliss and the sound did something to her insides. Lucy smiled and worked her way up to his neck. She had seen him favoring it, constantly trying to crack it, rubbing and scratching the ache when he could. Now, she pressed her thumbs alongside his vertebrae and worked until she felt the tension seep out of him. Then, when he was utterly boneless beneath her onslaught, she gave into her urges and dug her hands through his thick hair.

Lockwood keened, arching beneath her as she scratched at his scalp and tugged his hair gently. The strands were silky soft, if damp at the base from their exertions, and curled lovingly around Lucy's fingers. She scratched and stroked, massaging his scalp and head. He turned his face into the pillow, giving her full access, and she took advantage. She had always wanted to play with his hair, to push it out of his eyes, to feel the curls at the back twine around her fingers.

“Good?”

He made an incoherent sound.

Lucy drew her hands away and gave a few more lingering strokes down his back. He melted like butter, trusting and open. Lucy thought about leaning down to kiss his shoulder. She wondered about the texture of his skin under her lips, the fine hairs on the back of his neck, the warmth she would feel. Instead, she carefully climbed off him and slid to her knees beside the couch.

Lockwood's eyes opened immediately and he looked right at her. “Luce?”

“Can I kiss you?” she asked.

Lockwood took a moment to breathe, to weigh her expression, to think about the consequences, and then damn them. “Yes.”

Lucy leaned in.

His mouth was soft and warm. It slanted over hers, fitting perfectly. The first meeting was just a light brush. Lucy took it quickly and came back for seconds and thirds. She kissed him gently, lightly, and Lockwood let her take what she wanted. When she settled against him, deepening the kiss, he propped himself up on his elbow. His free hand curled around the back of her head, tangled in her hair, and tugged her closer.

She gasped, mouth opening to him, and his tongue tentatively touched her lower lip. She came out to meet him. It felt like just fencing with him, like a dance that they already knew all the steps to. It was familiar and new all at once. Lucy's heart thudded against her ribs and Lockwood's fingers combed through her short hair. His breath mingled with hers. She could smell him, taste him, get completely lost in him.

She had been bracing her hands on the couch, but now she dug her hands through his hair again. She pulled him closer, deeper, feeling his breath and his emotions mingle with her own. Lockwood was tender, enthusiastic, hungry all at once. He nipped her lower lip and she gasped, diving in to do the same to him. She could taste him, feel him. She wondered what she tasted like to him.

Then, the lock of the front door tumbled noisily.

Lucy exploded away from Lockwood and nonchalantly sat on the coffee table like she had been there all along.

Lockwood looked bereft, his hand still reaching for her.

George pushed open the door, took one look at them, and knew. “About time,” he muttered. “Do me a favor? Call Holly and Kipps and tell them, it's time to pay up. I won.”

XXX

Questions, comments, concerns? 


	9. The Return

I tried to stop. I really did, but this story won't end. [Honestly, I just knew you all would ask me about it if I didn't wrap these few loose ends up.]

XXX

It was a normal morning. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, George had gone out to get doughnuts, and Lucy was in the shower when Holly took the call and hurried downstairs to the basement office to speak with Lockwood. He knew something was wrong when he saw the expression on her face—the creeping fear, the concern, the desire for him to step in and take over. It wasn't often that Holly looked like she needed or even wanted help, but she did now. She had her palm over the receiver of the phone and her lower lip between her teeth.

“What is it?” Lockwood asked and put aside the papers he had been shuffling across his overloaded desk.

“It's the new headmaster of the Ragged School.”

For a moment, Lockwood had no idea how something like that could rile Holly up so much. “What does he want?” he inquired. “He can't have issues with our bill since DEPRAC paid us. We've already given our statements. I don't see what more that place wants from us.”

Holly shook her head. “It's not any of that. It's—he wants us to come back.”

Her words hung in the air, ringing in Lockwood's ears like the echo of a nightmare. “What?” he asked and his voice was higher than usual.

“He wants someone to take care of Screaming Martha,” Holly explained, “and since we've been there already, he wants us to do it.”

In that moment, Lockwood knew exactly how she felt. He sorely wished there was someone else to handle this. “We can't go back,” Lockwood protested. “Not after everything that happened. Lucy's just starting to sleep through the night again. We can't take her back to that hellhole.”

“What if we went without her?” Holly asked.

Lockwood stared at Holly and said slowly, “As if we could ever get her to stay here while we went back.”

“Right, I didn't realize... That was stupid,” Holly said. She shifted her weight from foot to foot. “So, what should I tell him?”

Lockwood sucked in a deep breath and held out his hand for the phone. “I'll deal with it. Give it here,” he said. “I'll tell him no.”

Holly nodded, passed it over, and stared at Lockwood with her big dark eyes.

“This is Lockwood,” he began by saying and put as much no-nonsense authority into his voice as he could muster.

“Ah, Mr Lockwood,” the headmaster said politely. His voice was as smooth and sweet as honey. “I'm glad you were able to speak with me. My name is James Sunderland. (1) I've recently taken over the care of the Ragged School. I know you're familiar with the spirits there. I'd like to hire you to take care of the one remaining on the premises, Screaming Martha. I was hoping we could set up a time to discuss this in person.”

“I'm sorry, Mr Sunderland, but our caseload is just too heavy right now. We don't have a gap in our schedule for at least six months,” Lockwood said. “If you'd like someone to take care of the problem for you sooner, I can recommend a few agencies.”

“We can wait, I suppose,” James answered. “From what I understand, Screaming Martha has been at the school since it opened and everyone knows to avoid her. When is your first availability?”

Lockwood realized how, history aside, Holly had had such a hard time getting James off the phone. The man was as slippery as warm butter and just as pliant. “I'd like to see you get the help you need before that,” Lockwood said. “I'm sure Bunchurch could get to you sooner.”

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line before James asked, “Can I be frank with you, Mr Lockwood?”

“If you like,” Lockwood agreed.

Holly was standing at the corner of his desk, listening.

“I don't want another agency tramping in here,” James explained. “The school's reputation was badly damaged and I'm trying to do something to fix it. I know you're familiar with what Miss Gillespie was doing and won't let that cloud your minds while you're here. You'll be able to focus on the ghost, rather than the recent events that have taken place.”

“I appreciate the esteem,” Lockwood said, “but we're just not interested in returning to the school.”

“Because of what happened here?” James asked.

“Yes and no,” Lockwood said firmly. “You don't know the full breadth of what my team went through. One of my agents Touched Clara Odinson's bed. She saw and felt everything that girl had gone through. I won't put her through going back there. I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to insist you find someone else to handle the last of your haunting.”

“Who's that?” Lucy's voice went through Lockwood like an electric shock.

Holly jumped and yelped in a startling display of nerves.

Lockwood almost fumbled the phone.

“No one,” Holly was quick to lie. “Just a client with a bunch of Stone Knockers. I tried to tell him we weren't interested but he insisted on speaking to Lockwood.”

Lucy's hair was wet from her shower, her skin was pink, and her eyes were hard. She wasn't buying Holly's story. “Lockwood,” she asked, “who is it?”

Lockwood made a gesture, still listening to James with one ear. He folded his hand over the phone and hissed, “Get out, both of you!”

Holly scurried backwards.

Lucy folded her arms. “That's not a client beneath our level of experience. It's something else.”

“Mr Sunderland,” Lockwood broke in. “Can I place you on hold for just one minute?”

“Of course,” James agreed. “Please, do consider my—”

Lockwood clicked the phone onto hold, rose from his desk, and moved to intercept her. “Lucy, please, would you let me deal with this?”

“Who is it?” she asked again.

Lockwood pinched the bridge of his nose in an attempt to stem the pain welling there. “It's the new headmaster for the Ragged School.”

Lucy's silence was heavy and then she asked, “What does he want?”

“For us to come back,” Lockwood told her. “I'm trying to tell him no, but—”

Lucy reached past him to grab the phone. “Tell him yes,” she said.

Lockwood snagged her wrist and spun her away from his desk. “What? No! We are not going back there!”

“I want to go back,” she said.

“No, Luce!” he protested. “Holly, tell her.”

“You don't have to go back, Lucy,” she insisted. “You don't have anything to prove to us.”

“I know that,” Lucy said, “but I want to go back.”

Lockwood stepped between her and the phone, blocking her with his body. “Holly, give us a minute please.”

Nodding, Holly backed up the stairs and slammed the door.

Lockwood could feel his heart thudding against his ribs, could feel the heat of Lucy's body where she stood close, could still hear the ringing screams of Clara's spirit in the Ragged School. “Why do you want to go back?”

“I need this, Lockwood,” Lucy explained. “I need closure. I see that place every time I have a nightmare.”

“So do I!” Lockwood said too loudly.

Lucy flinched and took a step back. “Why can't we go back?”

“I don't want to go back, Luce,” Lockwood told her. She continued to look at him and he knew that wasn't enough for her. He continued, “Because I don't want to see you go through that again. I don't want to see you hurting. I don't want any of it.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I just want this whole thing behind us. You're starting to feel better. So are Holly and George. So am I! We're all doing better now. Why should we go back and dredge this up?”

“Closure,” Lucy said softly.

Lockwood swallowed.

“I've been talking to Dr Watson about some things and she thinks we're all having such a hard time because we were never able to see this through to the end. We discovered Clara's Source and we stopped the haunting, but we didn't lay her to rest. We have no way of knowing if terrible things are still going on in that school,” Lucy said. “What we went through is still open and raw, like a wound.”

Lockwood took a deep breath in, held it, and let it out. “Do you know what you're asking me to do?”

Lucy stepped closer again. Gingerly, she took his hand and held it. “I know it's going to be hard, but... we won't be alone. I'll have you and you'll have me. Holly and George will be with us. It will be okay.”

“I don't want to see you get hurt again,” he murmured.

“I won't be,” she said.

“You can't promise me that,” Lockwood said. “What about my feelings?”

Lucy felt his concern and fear like a shard of ice through her heart. She had never really seen Lockwood uncertain or hurt—not like this, not over something he couldn't control. “We don't have to go,” Lucy murmured, “but... I think it would be good. I think we need to go back one last time and finish this. Just... think about it.”

Lockwood squeezed her hand. “Okay, okay,” he said finally. “Here's the deal. I'll tell Mr Sunderland that we need to discuss it as a team. If everyone agrees with you, unanimous vote, we'll go back. If so much as one person disagrees, we're not taking the case.”

“That's fair,” Lucy said.

“And we take Kipps,” Lockwood added.

“Okay,” she agreed.

Lockwood let his breath out, released her hand, picked up the phone, and relayed the message to James.

“Marvelous,” James agreed. “Here is my personal number. Do write it down and call me once you've decided.”

Lockwood scribbled it on a sheet of paper and hung up with a sigh. He rested his palms on his desk, staring down at the numbers until they blurred.

Lucy stepped up behind him. He could feel the warmth of her body all along his back. Slowly, giving him time to pull away, she put her arms around him. Her palms flattened over his heart and her cheek rested on his back. He placed his hand over hers, rasping his thumb over her knuckles. He allowed his breathing to slow and deepen until it matched hers.

“Let's go upstairs and have breakfast. George should be back by now,” Lockwood said finally. “I'll bring it up to them when we've finished eating.”

“Okay,” Lucy agreed. She searched his face when he pulled away and gave him a wan smile. “Thank you, Lockwood.”

…

Lockwood wasn't surprised when Holly and George agreed with Lucy. George was eager to return and finish the mysteries of their unique haunting. Holly was more concerned about Lockwood and Lucy, but had agreed once Lucy gave her reasoning. Lockwood found himself as the deciding vote. Despite his own feelings about returning, he agreed because that was what the rest of his team wanted.

“The last thing we have to agree on,” he said to his friends, “is that we're finishing this job. I'm okay with us not taking it if we don't want to, but once we start, we need to secure Screaming Martha. This is still a business. We can't agree to something and then back out.”

“We'll take care of her,” Lucy said assuredly.

It seemed strange that she was the most calm of all of them.

“Okay,” Lockwood said and pushed away from the table. “I'll make the calls.”

Lockwood put in a call to Kipps and arranged a time for him to meet them at the Ragged School. Then, Lockwood called James and relayed their agreement. He asked for twice their usual fee and received it without trouble. He was almost disappointed by how easily it all fell into place. After he hung up, he turned and found George watching him from the top of the stairs.

“Hey, George,” Lockwood greeted. “Something I can do for you?”

“Are you okay?” George asked without preamble.

“Why wouldn't I be?” Lockwood answered.

George shrugged and then said softly, “Holly told me about what happened when he called.”

Lockwood heaved a sigh. “You all think it's a good idea and I know I've asked you to go along with crazier plans, to take larger leaps of faith. I'm willing to go through with this.”

“If it makes you feel better, I do think it's a good idea.” George took his glasses off, polished them, and slid them back on. “I've done research about recovery from traumatic events and it seems like this is all part of it. It might make you feel better too, Lockwood.”

Lockwood regarded George. He had always trusted George's research without question, but this... going back didn't seem like it would help.

“It's just a building,” George continued. “It's no more evil than any of the places we usually go. It's what's inside that makes it haunted and we've gone a long way towards fixing that. People are looking at the Ragged School now. If something happens again, someone will intervene and that's because of us. We did a good thing.”

“You're right,” Lockwood said softly. “Of course you're right.”

“Of course I am,” George agreed. “How about a little sparring to loosen you up?”

“Are you offering?” Lockwood asked.

George took a worn rapier from the rack against the wall and took his stance. “Go easy on me,” he said.

Lockwood grinned.

Holly drifted into the basement office with a round of snacks after George had gone down. She saw the back of Lucy's head and crept down carefully to see why Lucy was loitering on the stairs rather than just going into the office. Lucy had the Skull's jar in her lap and Holly saw its lips moving in what was probably a play-by-play off-color commentary about Lockwood and George's sparring session.

Holly sank down on the step beside Lucy and asked, “Who's winning?”

“Honestly,” Lucy said as she accepted a biscuit. “I'm not sure.”

“Nobody's winning,” the Skull muttered. “You should put them both out of their misery now while we're young. I can tell you where to hide the bodies.”

Lucy shook her head and smiled.

In the basement, George and Lockwood were trading puns and jokes over each rapier blow. Though Lockwood was clearly outmatched in such a low-brow game, he parried each of George's movements expertly. It was only when George managed to make him double-over and laugh that he got in a lucky shot.

…

Quill Kipps beat Lockwood and Co to the Ragged School. He stood for a moment, gazing at the grey and mildewed edifice, but his psychic Talents had long since deserted him. Now, the only way he could be of help was with a pair of special goggles stolen from the Orpheus Society that allowed adults to see ghosts. With or without them, he couldn't see anything strange about the old building. Yet knowing what had occurred within those walls made his skin crawl in a different way.

Up the street, a bus squealed to a stop with a hiss of air-brakes. Four youngsters climbed down and started making their way towards the school. Kipps turned and headed to meet them. They looked much the same as always—Lockwood in his well-fitting if tight business casual, Lucy in her leggings and lugging the Skull, Holly as well-pressed and color-coordinated as ever, George with his sagging bottoms and stained graphic t-shirt. They all carried satchels of supplies and Kipps shouldered the bags from both Holly and Lucy.

“Thanks for meeting us,” Lockwood said politely which immediately gave away how he felt about being there.

“Kipps is here?” George asked, making a show of looking around and then startling. “Oh, there he is. I didn't see you, Kipps. That ghastly green sweater blended right in with the mildew.”

“Har har,” Kipps remarked but didn't return a barb. He let George have it.

Lockwood's lips twitched as he tried not to smile.

“So, what's on the docket tonight?” Kipps asked.

“One screaming spirit, Sister Martha McCready,” Holly told him. “A nun who fell down the stairs and broke her neck. Supposedly, she only appears to bad children.”

“Ah, so that's why you brought George,” Kipps said with a grin.

George adjusted his glasses, but didn't explode the way he usually would have. Instead he said, “No, Kipps, that's why we invited you. You're the baddest person we know.”

“Let's get inside,” Lockwood said when it seemed they were planning to trade insults forever. “Mr Sunderland is expecting us.”

Kipps knocked firmly. Black paint flecked off on his knuckles and he stepped back, disgusted.

A moment later, James Sunderland pulled open the door in greeting. He was all at once younger and older than they had expected. His blonde hair was thick and stylishly swept to one side. His face was soft, his eyes were worn at the edges, and his pallor was pale. However, he smiled warmly and stepped aside so they could enter. He wore denim trousers and a thermal shirt beneath an army-green jacket. “So good of you to make time for us,” he said once he had gone through the rounds of introductions. “I really appreciate it. I know it's hard for you to come back here.”

Lockwood forced a smile. “We're happy to be of help. I appreciate your patience.”

“Not at all,” James remarked. “The children told me that you ate dinner with them before your last visit. Would you like to do so again?”

George's nose wrinkled at the memory of mystery meat and boiled yet dry potatoes.

However, Lucy thought of Fiona whom she hadn't seen since their first visit. The blonde girl had slipped away before Lucy had a chance to speak with her. If there was another loose end in the Ragged School Case, it was Fiona and Lucy didn't think she'd get another chance to try to speak with her. “If you don't mind, Mr Sunderland,” she said.

“Follow me to the cafeteria,” James said brightly, “or do you remember the way?”

“We remember, but I assume we're all going that way so we should go together,” Lockwood said.

“Quite right,” James agreed.

They walked quietly through the dimly-lit hallways until they reached the double doors into the mess hall. James held one door open for them and bid them inside. Lucy stopped short just inside the threshold despite herself. Holly bumped into her and then they both stood, staring. Kipps opened the second door so Lockwood and George could edge around the girls.

“Ah, yes,” James said with a cheerful smile. “I've made some changes. It was just ghastly in here before, so dark and dreary and the food—ugh.”

The cafeteria, which had the appearance of a prison before with its metal trays and worn tables, was completely revamped. It didn't look like the tables were new, but they had been sanded and repainted. The metal trays were the same as was the assembly line, but now the smell of rich herbs and spices filled the air. The cooks had clean black aprons that didn't show stains and were serving cuts of chicken breast, baked seasoned potatoes, and green beans just a hair overdone. Baskets of rolls were set out on the tables along with pitchers of milk and juice. The children were all chattering, laughing, smiling. Mr Charles Darby was seated with a small cluster of young children, dealing cards, teaching the delicate rules of Go Fish. The atmosphere had completely changed.

Almost instantly, Lockwood felt better about James.

“I installed cameras in the hallways and outside the dorms. My wife, Mary, and I look over the tapes from the day before every morning to make sure no one suspicious has been in or out of the dorms after the children go to sleep,” James told them. “I had to overhaul the budget and there wasn't enough left for new furniture, but I talked to the children about it and they'd rather have the security than new tables and chairs. It's not a perfect system, but we have to try something to make everyone feel safe again.”

“Everyone looks so happy,” Holly said.

Kipps gingerly nudged them the rest of the way into the room and let the door close.

“Please feel free to eat and speak with the children. I'll be over there with Mary if you need me.” James pointed to a table in the corner where a blonde woman was speaking quietly to several girls. He wove through the throng of children, laughing and tussling hair as he went.

A fist that had coiled in Lockwood's guts started to ease. Maybe Lucy was right and this would be the closure they all needed.

“I'm going to look for Fiona,” Lucy told the others. With that, she began weaving through the large room.

“Go ahead,” Kipps said to Lockwood, Holly, and George. “I'll guard the bags.”

“Are you an agent?” one of the children asked Kipps.

“I am,” he answered.

“But you're so old!”

Kipps heaved a sigh.

Lockwood, George, and Holly left him regardless. Holly was led by the hand to a table of Night Watch kids who thanked her profusely. George was asked countless questions about the Source of ole Bloody Fingers Hamil. For his part, Lockwood trailed after Lucy—just in case. It took Lucy a little while to locate Fiona in the mess hall, especially with children stopping her along the way. At first, she didn't recognize the girl. Fiona's riot of blonde curls had grown out to show brown roots and also gone flat. It was actually Fiona who recognized Lucy and called her over.

“Fiona,” Lucy said lightly. She slid onto the bench beside the girl. “You look different. I didn't recognize you.”

Fiona's smile was pinched and she touched her hair self-consciously. “Yeah, well, Headmistress Gillespie was dyeing and curling my hair. She said, 'Gentlemen love a blue-eyed blonde,' and then she'd send them up.”

Lucy's stomach clenched and the smell of food soured in her lungs.

“But that's over now,” Fiona continued. “Headmaster James seems nice. He wants to make us feel safe and he's already made some changes.” She speared a potato and popped it into her mouth. “The food's definitely better and the cameras are a good start.”

“You think so?” Lucy asked.

Fiona shrugged. “It's early yet, who can say?” she murmured. “Anyway, I wanted to thank you for what you did for us. I didn't think any of the adults would care. That's why Jennifer and I snuck out to see you instead. We heard Lockwood and Co was run by someone young and we thought if anyone would care... it would be you.”

Lucy didn't know what to say.

It was Lockwood, loitering behind her, that reached between them and handed Fiona his card. “If anything starts happening again or you ever need help, just call,” he told her. “If we can't help you ourselves, we'll find someone who can.”

Fiona took the card with a watery smile. She tucked it into her bra, next to her heart.

…

Rather than start their investigation, Lockwood and Co helped clean up the mess from dinner. They spoke with almost everyone, including Mary Sunderland. Slowly, all their doubts about the safety of the children in the Ragged School were laid to rest. There were still good people out there—people who cared, people who wanted to help, people who did everything they could—and the Sunderlands certainly appeared to be those kinds of people. The children and Mr Darby agreed.

“Feel better?” Kipps asked once everyone had settled into the cafeteria for the night and they were all headed upstairs to investigate in earnest.

“Yes,” Lockwood said.

Lucy nodded.

George polished his glasses. “I think they're in good hands now.”

“Me too,” Holly agreed.

“Like you said, only time will tell,” the Skull said from Lucy's satchel.

“Can you think positive for once?” she asked.

The Skull rolled his eyes in a semblance of a shrug. “I'm just being realistic.”

“What did he say, Luce?” Lockwood asked.

“Just that time will tell,” she explained.

“He's not exactly wrong,” Kipps agreed.

“I like this fellow,” the Skull said. “How about trading Lockwood in for him?”

Lucy ignored the Skull.

Since they had already been to the Ragged School, they went through the motions of setting up an iron circle, splitting up to take readings, and checking the perimeter out of habit alone. Lucy waved idly at one of the cameras in the third floor hallway. She peeked into the dorms and saw that they were much the same, though many of the wards had been removed and the linens all looked freshly-laundered. There were still iron bars on the windows, but that was to keep ghosts out rather than keep children inside. The still air smelled of lavender, soap, and the distant canal.

Clara's bed was still where it had been, though it was now an altar to the girl's short life. Teddy bears, folded poems, and flowers were spread across the fresh pink coverlet. A picture of Clara had been propped up among the offerings, her smiling face at odds with the sorrow in the room. Lucy stood before it for a long moment, her hand trembling faintly. She thought about reaching out, touching the photograph or one of the teddy bears. She thought about Touching the bed again, but Clara was dead and her Source had been burned. There would be no new memories or thoughts. The old ones shouldn't even be there, now that Clara's Source was laid to rest.

“Lucy?”

Lockwood's voice startled her, even though she knew he was right behind her. They were all paired off, save Kipps who was waiting in the iron circle with his goggles on just in case Martha decided to plunge down the stairs while they were exploring. Lucy had left the Skull with him.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

Lucy nodded shakily. “Yeah, fine. I was just thinking.”

Lockwood came to stand beside her, looking down at the wreaths of fake flowers and letters. Though most of the offerings appeared to come from the children who had known Clara, some were from adults with neat script and well-written prose. It all smacked of too-little-too-late. Where were all these people when Clara was suffering?

Lockwood's hand brushed Lucy's tentatively, asking for permission.

She gripped him swiftly, interlacing their fingers and letting him pull her close. Lucy felt a prickle of tears welled under her lids and didn't try to blink them away. She let the tears come slowly, dripping quietly down her face. It wasn't a pretty cry, but it was simple and cleansing. When she finished, she mopped her face with her sleeve and turned to look at Lockwood. He was just watching her, his face unreadable.

“Better?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said and was surprised to find that it was the truth. “How about you?”

Lockwood shrugged. “The same,” he admitted, “but my worry wasn't with the Ragged School, it's with you.”

“I think I'm okay,” Lucy told him. “I do feel better. It's like... a weight has been lifted. I know that's cliché, but I feel lighter.”

“That good then,” Lockwood said and squeezed her hand. “Should we go back and join the others?”

“Yeah,” she agreed.

Together, they turned away from the quiet dorms. There was no squeaking of abused springs, no whimpering, and no screaming. The building seemed peaceful, if empty and dim. Lockwood and Lucy started down the stairs, fingers still interlaced, when all the hair rose on the back of Lucy's neck. By the way Lockwood stiffened, she knew he felt it too.

“Martha?” Lucy asked.

As one, they turned to face the image of the stately Sister Martha McCready. As expected, she wore a full black dress and habit. She clutched a crucifix, though there was no sign of a ruler. Her eyes were hard, her lips were puckered, and her neck was tilted at a terrible angle from where she had broken it. She stood at the top of the stairs, looking down at them judgmentally.

Slowly, Lockwood released Lucy's hand and reached for his rapier. The moment he did, Martha disappeared.

“What was that about?” Lockwood asked.

All traces of her presence had vanished entirely. They took readings. They Looked and Listened, but nothing piqued.

“Hey,” Lucy said. “Take my hand again.”

Lockwood's brow wrinkled with confusion, but he gripped her hand as she asked. Their fingers slipped together easily, interlacing, and Lockwood's touch set off the usual torrent of butterflies in Lucy's stomach. Almost immediately, the cold creeping malaise of a ghost reappeared at the top of the stairs. They turned to face Martha. She had come a little bit closer, moving down one step towards them. Her face was still stern and serious, she still held her crucifix, and her neck was still broken.

Lucy wriggled her fingers out of Lockwood's.

Martha disappeared again.

“Really?” Lockwood asked incredulously. “Public displays of affection are what get her out and about? That's a 'bad' kid?”

Lucy snickered. “Let's regroup with the others and let them know.”

Holly, George, and Kipps were all sipping tea inside the iron circle when Lockwood and Lucy joined them.

“About time,” George muttered.

“I was beginning to think you were getting busy up there,” the Skull said, “which would be gross as well as wrong.”

Lucy accepted a cup of tea from Holly and took a sip. “We figured out what triggers Martha's ghost,” she said.

“Oh, you were getting busy!” the Skull leered. He waggled his brows.

Lucy turned the lever to quiet him.

“PDA,” Lockwood said grouchily.

A blush appeared high on Kipps's cheeks. “What exactly were you two doing up in the dorms?”

George said, “Get your mind out of the gutter, man.”

“Hands!” Lucy protested. “We were holding hands!”

“Ew,” George remarked.

Lucy tamped down her own urge to blush. “So, we'll just have to keep her busy while you guys look for the Source.”

“And we're not going to hear any jokes about this,” Lockwood said sternly.

“I don't know if I can agree to that,” George said.

Holly smiled into her cup.

“Let's get this over with,” Kipps said.

The Skull had his tongue lolling out, appearing to pant.

Lucy draped her jacket over his silver-glass jar and ignored him.

The next hour saw Lockwood and Lucy standing on the stairs, holding hands, while Screaming Martha stood at the top of the steps and glared at them. Occasionally, she drifted a step closer and occasionally she vanished if they readjusted their grip, but she always returned to stare at them.

“You know,” Lockwood remarked as he shifted to lean against the railing, “this is probably how she fell down the steps in the first place. If she wasn't so busy giving everyone the death glare, she could have watched where she was going.”

Lucy leaned beside him, keeping one eye on Martha. “That's true. What confuses me is the whole 'Screaming' part of her name. She hasn't made a peep all night.”

“She hasn't done much of anything. I see why the school just left her ghost here. It feels kind of like a waste of resources to do anything about her,” Lockwood said.

“Speaking of wasting resources,” Lucy said and peeked over the edge of the stairwell. “What on earth is the rest of the team doing? They've been looking for her Source for ages.”

Lockwood checked his watch. “It's been a little over an hour.”

“Think they're doing this on purpose?” Lucy asked.

Lockwood shrugged. He let go of her hand to stretch his fingers.

Lucy took advantage and cracked her knuckles.

Martha had vanished the moment they let go.

Lockwood sighed and held his hand out again. Lucy took it and leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. Martha was standing there again, watching sternly with her rosary clutched to her bosom. Lockwood tilted his cheek to rest on the crown of Lucy's head, exhaling in a bored huff. Then, almost absently, he pressed a little kiss to the top of her head.

Martha's ear-splitting scream almost knocked them over. All at once, she surged down the stairs towards them, howling.

Lockwood and Lucy flew apart, grabbing for their rapiers and salt grenades. However, the moment they let go of each other, Martha vanished again.

“Found it!” came Holly's cry from down below.

Lockwood sheathed his rapier.

Together, Lucy and Lockwood trekked down to meet up with the others. Kipps and George were coated in filthy cobwebs while Holly was dusted like a sweet treat. She smiled when she saw them and Kipps made a grand show of trying to brush himself off.

George waggled his brows. “What were you doing up there?” he asked cheekily. “We heard Martha scream all of the sudden.”

Lucy refused to blush.

Warningly, Lockwood said, “George.”

George chuckled.

Holly handed over a familiar crucifix tied up with a silver seal. “There was a cupboard under the stairs,” she explained. “It used to have a knob, but someone removed it and then painted over the door so it was hard to find. I hope you weren't put out too much by keeping Martha busy while we looked.”

“Oh yeah,” Kipps grumbled. “I'm sure they had a terrible time holding hands while we scuffed about on our hand and knees in every spider-infested corner of this ruddy school.”

George cackled.

“Let's get packed up and let Mr Sunderland know that the Ragged School is currently ghost-free,” Lockwood said. In an effort to change the subject, he brushed his hands together and said triumphantly, “I think we've all earned some breakfast.”

“Some of us have,” Kipps remarked. “I think you and Lucy should cook for us.”

…

After breakfast at Portland Row, Lockwood dove into the sink to make up for abandoning them like a good leader. Lucy had done her part by making pancakes in a variety of flavors from whole wheat for Holly, blueberry for Kipps, and chocolate chip for George. Lucy didn't envy Lockwood. There were a lot of dishes. She was about to roll up her sleeves and help him out when Kipps cleared his throat and tipped his chin.

“What?” she said flatly.

“Walk me out?” Kipps asked.

Lucy shot Lockwood an apologetic glance and followed Kipps out of the kitchen. Behind them, she heard Holly take pity on Lockwood and start helping out. George was still enjoying his lofty position of lording over his boss, cackling like the Skull on a good day. For his part, the Skull was slinking in his jar on the kitchen counter, making faces at all who passed.

“What's up?” Lucy asked Kipps.

“I just wanted to let you know that I'm proud of you,” Kipps told her.

Lucy's brow furrowed. “For going back to the Ragged School?”

“Well, sure, but not everything you do is defined by your trauma, Lucy. You're a very strong young woman and you show that every day,” Kipps said. “I know you wanted to go back to tie up loose ends, to make sure the children were safe there, as much as you wanted closure for yourself.”

Lucy flushed at the praise, fiddling with the hem of her shirt. “Thank you.”

“I really wanted to congratulate you on pinning Tony down,” he continued.

Lucy blushed in earnest. “What? I'm not pinning him down—”

Kipps put a hand on her shoulder. “I've known Tony a lot longer than you have,” he said gently. “Don't forget, I knew him when he was still a precocious youngster competing in rapier tournaments. I knew him when he was training under Gravedigger Skyes. I knew him in passing while his parents were still alive, while his sister was still alive.”

Lucy's breath caught. “You did?”

Kipps nodded. “I have to say, even when I disliked him, I was worried about him. For a long time there, he was just a shell of a person, hollow and empty, filling his time with hunting ghosts and honing his skills. I didn't think he'd make it to see fifteen after he lost them. But since he's created this little team, he's stabilized. With George at his side, I used to think he'd survive to see eighteen and then do something reckless and die without his Talent.”

Lucy bit her lip. She had similar worries about Lockwood's behavior and she knew George did as well. It was easy to see that their fearless leader would happily go out in a blaze of glory if the situation called for it.

“But,” Kipps said, “now that he has you, I think he might not only survive, but he might start living too.”

Lucy swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. “Kipps—”

“If you repeat what I'm about to say, I'll deny it to my grave, but... I'm glad you and Tony are together. You make a good couple. Try not to break his heart,” Kipps said. “Oh, and if he breaks yours, just let me know and I'll put him in the ground.”

Lucy couldn't help but smile. “Thanks, Kipps,” she said.

Kipps gave her a quick hug, yodeled goodbye to the others, and disappeared out into the buttery morning. Lucy returned to the kitchen to find that Holly and Lockwood had made quick work of the dishes and were drying their hands. George had wrapped up the leftover pancakes and stowed them in the fridge.

“What did Kipps want to talk to you about?” Lockwood asked as he set aside the dish towel.

“He just wanted to congratulate me,” Lucy said.

“About what?” Lockwood asked.

“Yeah, about what? I won the bet!” George put in.

Holly regarded them, a twinkle in her eyes.

Lucy shrugged nonchalantly. Then, she gripped Lockwood by the front of his shirt, towed him closer, rose up onto her tip-toes, and pressed a light kiss to the corner of his mouth. She didn't give him enough time to return it—she wasn't ready for that kind of display in front of their friends. He goggled at her for a moment, looking a lot like the Skull, before he collected himself and smiled in that special way he did only for her.

…

After they returned from the Ragged School, Lucy was too mentally and emotionally exhausted to have any nightmares. By the faint green light of her faithful Skull, she slept like a baby in her attic bedroom. The next day was delightfully normal and low-stress. Holly came over and everyone pitched in to give Portland Row the thorough cleaning that it needed. Shaking out her bed linens and finally washing all her clothes made Lucy feel like a new person. She thought for sure that this whole ugly incident was firmly in her past.

Then, the next night, the nightmares returned full-force as though nothing had changed, as though she hadn't felt better, as though her feelings meant nothing. She woke to a scream ringing against the rafters and realized with some dawning horror, that it was her own.

“Lucy,” the Skull said urgently. “It was just a nightmare. I tried to wake you, Lucy. Calm down. Breathe.”

Over her own ragged heartbeat, she heard Lockwood and George on the stairs, thundering up to aid her. She wanted more than anything to pull the covers over her head and pretend nothing had happened. She wanted to go back to sleep, even though she knew it wouldn't come after that.

However, Lockwood barged open the door to her room, rapier in hand. He was completely alert, energized, as though she hadn't woken him at two in the morning.

George was a beat behind him, stumbling and shirtless. In his half-asleep state, he had brought a large feather duster to defend Lucy.

“I'm okay,” Lucy told them. She couldn't bring herself to get out of bed. She didn't want to peel back the covers and let them see her. “It was just a—” her voice cracked “—a bad dream.”

“A nightmare,” the Skull supplied helpfully. “Was it about the school? About Clara?”

The worst part was that Lucy couldn't really remember what the dream had been. The emotions—fear, revulsion, pain, shame—clung to her like cobwebs, but she couldn't remember what it had been about. She stifled a little whimper and it came out a hiccup.

George lowered his duster and straightened his glasses. “I'll make some tea,” he said.

“No,” Lucy said quickly. “You don't have to. Just go back to bed. I'm fine.”

“I'll take a cup,” Lockwood said to George.

With a nod, George headed noisily downstairs.

“Luce,” Lockwood said gently. He leaned his rapier in the corner and came towards her. He had vaulted out of bed without even putting on his dressing gown. His feet were bare and his hair was wild. It looked as though he had been tossing and turning too.

“I'm fine, Lockwood,” she told him. “I don't need tea. I'm going back to bed.” Lucy tucked the covers under her shoulder and rolled over, putting her back to him.

“Lucy,” the Skull chided. “Let him help you. He so wants to help you. You can see it on his smarmy face.”

Lucy tensed as Lockwood perched gingerly on the edge of her bed. “If you really want me to go, I'll go,” he said softly. “Just say the word.”

Lucy opened her mouth to tell him again that she was fine. Instead, a sob escaped.

“Oh, Luce,” Lockwood said. He rested his warm long-fingered hand on her shoulder over the blankets.

Lucy couldn't help herself. She rolled over and let Lockwood sweep her up, blankets and all, in his arms. He held her tight, his hands smoothing down her tangled hair and running along her back. She wrenched her arms out of her cocoon and coiled them around him, tucking her face into his shoulder. The smell of lavender, sandalwood, and home wrapped around her.

Lockwood hushed her, his voice a low timbre that she felt vibrate in his chest.

She wasn't crying, but she felt like she could start in earnest at any moment.

George's footsteps sounded up the stairs and he came into the room with a tea tray. He hadn't made a cup for himself, just one for Lucy and one for Lockwood. “Plenty of milk and honey,” he said to Lucy. “It'll help you get back to sleep, if you can. Do you need anything else from me?”

“No, thank you, George,” Lockwood said. “I've got her. You can go back to sleep.”

“Lucy?” George asked.

“Thanks for the tea,” she managed. “I'm okay. Really. It was just a bad dream.”

George nodded thoughtfully and said, “Goodnight.” He closed her bedroom door behind himself.

Lockwood flicked on Lucy's bedside lamp and set his tea there. He passed Lucy her cup, holding the saucer while she sipped it slowly. The warmth welled up inside her, soothing the hollow coldness she hadn't realized had formed. She sighed and was surprised to find that she had drank the whole cup in moments.

“Better?” Lockwood asked.

“Yeah,” she murmured.

Lockwood set the empty cup beside his full one and picked that up. He sipped it and the smell of black tea drifted around Lucy. Warm from the inside out, still held against Lockwood's side, she was beginning to think returning to sleep was possible. The Skull's green light played on Lockwood's face, washing one side in the warm glow of her lamp and the other in ghostly paleness. It was a fitting look for him, if a little disconcerting. Lucy gazed at him.

“Luce, do you want to talk about it?” Lockwood offered.

She shook her head. “I don't remember what it was, just... feelings.”

Lockwood rubbed her side with his palm. “You look drowsy. Would you like to go back to sleep?”

Lucy shook her head.

“Do you want me to go?”

“No,” she murmured. “Please stay, if you wouldn't mind.”

“I don't mind,” he assured her. “But my feet are freezing. Budge up a little, please.”

Lockwood rested his back against the headboard, his long legs stretched out along the length of her. Hesitating only a moment, Lucy lifted her covers and tucked his legs beneath them before curling up against his side. She rested her head on his chest, her ear over his heart, her hand closing lightly in his pajama top.

Lockwood didn't say anything, though he smiled warmly at her. He finished his tea and turned off the lamp. Only the glow of the Skull and the distant ghost-lamps flicking on and off in rhythm illuminated her room. Lockwood's pale face stood out regardless, his eyes gleaming like twin candles.

Lucy's heart slowed and her breathing deepened. “Do you have to go?” she asked sleepily. Her eyes were heavy. It was taking all she had to keep them open. She felt so warm and so safe with Lockwood at her side.

“Only if you want me to,” Lockwood answered.

Lucy shook her head. “Stay,” she pleaded. She felt the soft cotton of his shirt under her cheek.

Lockwood bent slightly and pressed a lingering kiss to the top of her head. “I'm right here,” he promised.

Lucy fell asleep quickly despite herself.

Lockwood sat up much longer, glancing sidelong at the Skull who watched them from the windowsill. Uncommonly, it wasn't making any terrible faces. It just watched, its face a measure of the youth it must have been in the past. After a while, the face retreated into the murk, leaving only the withered brown skull to stare at Lockwood in the way that skulls do. Somehow, Lockwood thought that the Skull was giving his blessing or was relieved that someone was there to take care of Lucy. With that thought in mind, Lockwood stopped fighting the pull of sleep.

…

When Lucy woke in the morning, she thought she was still dreaming. After all, the golden sunlight was playing so perfectly on Lockwood's face. It gleamed on his lips, on his smooth lids, on his high cheekbones, and caught in the curl of his hair. He looked angelic, so handsome, so much like a dream.

“If you kiss him,” the Skull complained, “I'll barf and it won't be pretty for anyone.”

Lucy squeaked in surprise. Well, that settled it—it wasn't a dream. Lockwood was really in her bed with her. His arms were wrapped around her, holding her close, and his legs were tangled with hers. Their bare feet were touching, sending an electric current up Lucy's spine that settled in her brain. Dimly, she remembered asking him to stay last night after her nightmare, but she hadn't thought he would stay all night.

“He did,” the Skull said. “I kept my eye on him and I hate to admit that he was a perfect gentleman. There was no funny business on _his_ part. You, on the other hand—” The Skull made a hideously deformed kissy-face, complete with wet sound effects.

“Ugh!” Lucy glowered at him. “I did not!”

“I saw you thinking about it,” the Skull said with a laugh. “Don't even try to deny it.”

“You're disgusting,” Lucy muttered.

“I hope you're talking to the Skull and not me,” Lockwood said suddenly. He blinked sleepily at Lucy, his cheek rubbing along her pillow as he moved.

Her cheeks flamed and she quickly scrubbed her face for any lingering drool. “Yes, I am,” she said quickly. “I would never call you disgusting, not that you could ever be disgusting. I wouldn't even use the word disgusting within ten yards of you. I mean—”

Lockwood placed a fingertip beneath her chin and gently drew her in. Lucy's rambling choked off. She was captivated by his dark eyes, by the hint of a smile on his lips, by the sight of his hair splayed against her pillows. His kiss was chaste, delicate, sweet. He pecked her lips gently and then smoothed an errant curl behind her ear. His touch was butterfly-light.

“Good morning,” he said brightly.

“Morning,” she breathed.

The Skull made retching noises.

“What time is it?” Lockwood asked.

“Time for you to get out, Casanova,” the Skull said.

“Half past nine,” Lucy said after a glance at her clock and a glower at the Skull.

Lockwood carefully began to untangle their limbs and then stretched, lithe and catlike, beneath the covers. “Fancy some breakfast?”

Lucy nodded, watching his grace with a suddenly-dry mouth.

Lockwood pulled back the covers, climbed out of her bed, and shivered. “Gosh, it's chilly up here. Is that from the Skull?”

The Skull mashed his face against the glass. “How dare you blame me!”

“No,” Lucy said. “It's just the attic. It's a little drafty.”

“Don't you dare invite her down to your bed, rapscallion!” the Skull demanded. “She's perfectly fine up here with me.”

Lucy's cheeks went scarlet. She jolted out of bed, turned the tap, and positioned herself between Lockwood and the Skull with an awkward grin.

Lockwood watched her antics with a small smile. “I'm not going to ask what that was about,” he said. “I'll meet you downstairs, Luce.” With that, Lockwood picked up his rapier from where he had left it the night before, departed, and closed the door at his back.

A moment later, George could be heard cackling while Lockwood's voice answered gruffly. Lucy had a feeling Lockwood was getting the same treatment that she had gotten from the Skull. She wanted to be embarrassed, but she was just too happy. She threw on some clean clothes and bounded downstairs after him, her nightmare all but forgotten.

XXX

(1) James Sunderland is the protagonist of Silent Hill 2. You could rightly say his wife, Mary, is the antagonist [but that has nothing to do with this story].

Questions, comments, concerns?


	10. The End

Ah, the final chapter [for real this time]. This was quite a ride considering I intended to end it at chapter seven, but then I wanted to talk about counseling and then I wanted to talk about panic attacks and now I realized there was totally room for the final step in Lockwood and Lucy's relationship.

XXX

The post-case afterglow found Lockwood, George, Holly, and Lucy all crashed in the front parlor where the couch was worn from years of sitting and the armchair cushions had been perfectly pressed to accommodate bottoms. George was on a throne of pillows at the coffee table, pouring over some latest Fittes Ghost Hunting Contraption with the Skull. Holly was cuddled under an afghan, crocheting with smooth motions. Lockwood was stretched out in his usual chair, reading the latest gossip rag. Lucy made up a tea tray with snacks and drinks, carried it into the room, set it on the table, grabbed up the novel she hadn't yet finished, and moved to sit on the couch beside Holly.

“Luce,” came Lockwood's voice.

“Don't look now,” the Skull muttered, “he's going to ask you for something lewd. He's got an exhibitionist kink, don't you just know it?”

Lucy did her best to ignore the Skull. “Yeah?”

“Sit with me?”

Lucy eyed his chair. Though slender, Lockwood was taking up most of it and Lucy didn't fancy perching on the arm for the foreseeable future. “Um,” she began.

Lockwood sat up slightly, adjusted himself, and meaningfully made room on his lap. “Unless you don't want to?”

Holly kept her eyes on her crocheting. George polished his glasses. They both appeared to be trying very hard not to be involved. Only the Skull continued to stare at Lucy, making faces. In an attempt to stop it, George turned its jar, but it rotated smoothly as he did so.

“I do,” Lucy admitted, “but...”

“Sit with me.”

Lucy tightened her grip on her book and approached Lockwood's chair. She had often perched on the arm while he was sitting in it to get a better look at whatever he was reading or be nosy or surreptitiously smell his cologne, but this felt different. For one, their friends were right there and while she certainly wasn't ashamed of her feelings for Lockwood, she had kind of expected him to want to keep their relationship down low. However, his eyes were sparkling as she came closer and he stretched out a hand.

If there was anything Lucy felt for him that couldn't be questioned, it was her trust. She took his hand easily and he pulled her in. He tugged her into his lap, arranging his legs so that her weight was mostly on the seat, but there was no denying the inches where they were pressed together. He pulled her back against his chest, circled his arm around her waist, readjusted his grip on his magazine, and rested his chin over her shoulder. He gave off the air of someone incredibly comfortable, even though Lucy was too stiff to even think about opening her novel.

It was all she could do to rest her weight on him, to not focus on every millimeter of his body where it pressed to hers. She expected George to turn around and make fun of them, but George kept his eyes on his project and his back to them. Holly was still smiling warmly at her crocheting. Only the Skull was waggling its brows. Lucy took a deep breath and let it out. With it, she banished her tension and sank into Lockwood's embrace. He shifted again, making her more comfortable. His body heat soaked along her back and sides, into her shoulders and thighs, into her chest.

Lucy burrowed into him, leaning her head back against his shoulder and settling her hand over his forearm. She opened her book and tucked the bookmark into its pages so she wouldn't lose it. Lockwood's breath puffed against her ear, stirring her short hair, and she repressed a full-body shiver of delight. She was warm in Lockwood's arms, safe and content. She read several chapters, never once noticing that—though Lockwood still held his magazine—he had completely stopped turning pages. He squeezed her a little tighter, his head tilting into hers and his chin resting lightly, as he just held her.

…

The incident in his chair was just the beginning. As Lucy soon discovered, Anthony Lockwood was a shameless cuddlebug. He kept it under wraps in front of clients and while they were on cases, where he was the picture of professionalism, but once they were home at Portland Row, he took every opportunity presented to shower her with affection.

When she was cooking, he hugged her from behind and dropped kisses on her shoulder. When he spotted her drinking tea, he smiled and gave her a light kiss in greeting. When they were out, if it was practical, he held her hand. When they were lounging, he invited her to sit with him and then coiled around her like an octopus. She couldn't have escaped him if she tried—not that she wanted to.

Being wrapped in Lockwood was ten times better than any heated blanket or comforting sweater. Lucy often found herself staying up too late just to spend more time nestled with him on the sofa. He always walked her up to her room at night, lingering outside like a schoolboy dropping off a date.

Lucy would kiss him then, deeply and passionately while there were no prying eyes to watch. Lockwood always returned her kisses with equal fervor, sweeping her against him and tangling his fingers in her hair. His mouth was gentle but insistent, urging her to open up, to dance with him.

With how closed-off Lockwood had been with details of himself ever since she had first met him, Lucy was surprised to find his hidden softer side. When she thought about it, maybe Lockwood had always been like this, enriched and loving and open, but just hadn't had anyone to shower his feelings on. Lucy was grateful that he had chosen her as that person.

She withdrew from his kiss gingerly, both hands pressed to his chest. She could feel his heart thumping. He made a soft sound, part moan and part sigh. His thick lashes fluttered as his dark eyes peeled open, the pupils almost completely overtaking the chocolate of his irises. Lucy had never really noticed that about his eyes, but she was standing so close now that she couldn't help but pick out the fine details of his features. She leaned in and gave him another kiss, chastely, lest she forget all about going to sleep at a reasonable hour.

“Lockwood,” she murmured when she withdrew again. “We should go to bed.”

“I know,” he said and bumped his nose to hers. “One more.”

Lucy obliged, squeezing his shoulders. His hands wandered, rough from his rapier calluses, under her jumper and up the warmth of her back. He crushed her to him, tongue tracing against hers, breath filling her lungs with his scent. Lucy was aware of her own heart pounding. Warmth pooled low in her belly, curling there like a kitten as Lockwood ran his hands down her back and did something magical with his tongue.

Lucy pressed him backwards. “Goodnight,” she breathed.

Lockwood made that sound again, the one that made her bones feel like liquid, but he relented with a soft smile. “Goodnight, Luce.”

Lucy ducked into her room and shut the door before that smile made her change her mind.

The Skull was flickering moodily on his windowsill, peering at her suspiciously. “Playing tonsil-hockey with Lockwood?” he grumbled. “Actually, don't tell me. I don't want to know.”

“I wasn't going to tell you anyway,” Lucy informed him.

Ducking into the bathroom, she changed into her pajamas, brushed her teeth, and got ready for bed. She flopped down and pulled the covers over herself. The ghost lamp down the street and the Skull made her room faintly luminous, but it didn't bother her. She kind of appreciated the light in case she woke from a nightmare. Closing her eyes, she drifted off to the memory of Lockwood's kiss, of his caressing hands, of that little sound that made her knees buckle.

It seemed like only minutes later that Lucy woke from her first nightmare in weeks. Her heart was jack-hammering, her skin was slick with sweat, and she was gasping as though she had just run a marathon. The Skull regarded her, his glow a little brighter in response to her sharp awakening.

“Clara?” he asked lowly. “Or something else?”

“Clara,” Lucy confirmed. She scrubbed her hands over her face. “It's just more of the same. I'm lying in her bed, someone's holding me down, and they...” Her voice cracked, the words clogging up in her throat like debris in a river. Her eyes burned and she swiped again at her cheeks. “I need something,” she mumbled. “I need a cup of tea.”

“Sure,” the Skull said. “You could shout for Lockwood, if you like.”

Lucy shook her head. “No, no,” she said. “There's no need to wake him. I'll just get it myself.”

“Okay.”

Lucy pulled back the blankets, put her feet on the floor, and padded quietly out of her attic room. She was careful on the steps, as she always was, avoiding creaky board out of habit alone. However, once she reached the landing where Lockwood's and George's rooms were, she found herself lingering.

She didn't really want tea—she just wanted something warm and comforting.

It would be easy to open Lockwood's bedroom door, slip inside, and crawl in beside him. She knew he wouldn't mind. He had stayed with her throughout her nightmare in the past and he was reluctant to leave her each time they said goodnight. Lucy rested her palm on the knob, warring with herself. It didn't seem right to wake him.

Yet Lucy knew that he had nightmares too. What if he was lying awake, staring at the ceiling as she so often did? At least she had the Skull for midnight chats, but Lockwood was alone. Maybe she could just crack open the door and peek inside. If he was asleep, she would make a cup of tea and go back to her own bed. If he was awake, well...

Lucy carefully turned the knob, doing her best to be quiet. The faint light from the hallway spilled into Lockwood's immaculate space and cast a shadow over the lump in his bed. He was clearly asleep and Lucy's heart dropped. She hadn't realized that she had been hoping he would be awake until the disappointment punched her in the stomach.

She let the door drift open a little wider, enough that she could see the mess of his dark hair and one long arm draped atop the blankets. He looked peaceful and exhausted. She shouldn't wake him. She should just leave and go back to sleep. She could tell him about her nightmare in the morning and he could hold her then. She could wait.

“Luce?” came Lockwood's voice. It was drowsy and rough.

She froze in the threshold, silhouetted against the hallway light. “Y-yes?”

“What're you doing?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she whispered.

Lockwood shifted and leaned up onto his elbows to look at her. His white face glowed, his dark eyes were bleary, and his hair was wild. “Nightmare?” he asked.

She could only nod.

“C'mere.”

Lucy didn't have to be asked twice. She stepped inside, closed the door behind her, and practically threw herself onto his bed. Lockwood lifted the covers, scooped her under them, and curled around her. His body was soft and amazingly warm with sleep, the covers and mattress soaked with his heat. His arm was heavy when he tugged her into him and tucked his chin over her head. The effect was like Lucy was his teddy bear, but it wasn't unwelcome. She snuggled in deeply, inhaling the scent of him, letting it banish her nightmare.

Lockwood dropped a sleepy kiss on her hair. “Night, Luce,” he murmured.

“Goodnight Lockwood,” she answered.

It seemed that he had already drifted back to sleep, warm and heavy around her. She hoped the Skull wouldn't worry since she had originally left for a cup of tea, but wasn't about to crawl out of Lockwood's perfect bed to explain herself. She contented herself to apologize to him in the morning, closed her eyes, and fell back to sleep.

…

It was Holly Munro who cemented the thought in Lucy's head. She hadn't started anything—goodness knows Lucy was already thinking all kinds of thoughts about Lockwood—but Holly was the one who made them real. She made them a distinct possibility. She did it as smoothly and succinctly as she did everything else in Portland Row.

Holly had taken Lockwood's great coat, Lucy's jacket, George's favorite sweatshirt, and her own double breasted captain's coat with the gold buttons to the dry cleaners to try to get the worst of the ectoplasm stains out of them. The chosen cleaner was famous for their Martinizing and favored by agencies far and wide. They were partly successful on all counts, but sadly weren't able to remove the jam stains from George's jumper.

Holly rapped smartly on the door to Lucy's room, opened when Lucy called, and shut it behind her. Lucy had been considering her mountains of dirty laundry or, more accurately, trying to decide if it would just be easier to throw the lot out and buy all new clothes rather than try to wade into the washing.

“Lucy,” Holly said. “I brought your jacket.”

Lucy perked up. “Were they able to get the stains out?”

Holly nodded. “From Lockwood's coat too.” She handed over the coat and a small brown paper bag with the emblem of a pharmacy on it.

Lucy held the bag for a moment, uncertain if Holly had meant to hand it to her.

“That's for you, too,” Holly explained.

“What is it?” Lucy asked.

“Open it.”

Holly wandered over towards the Skull where he was perched on the windowsill, soaking up the mid-morning rays. The Skull's mouth was moving, but Holly couldn't hear its voice. She tapped the glass curiously and the Skull immediately rewarded her with an image of its face turned nearly inside-out. Holly recoiled and saw its mouth racing.

Lucy yelped and it probably had nothing to do with the Skull. “W-what do you expect me to do with t-these?”

Holly turned around to find Lucy holding the little package as far from herself as she possibly could. She looked more flustered than she ever had when dealing with horrific ghosts or nest of spiders. Holly bit back a laugh, certain that it wouldn't help the situation any. “They're condoms.”

Lucy's face was bright red. “I know what they are,” she protested.

“Then I quite think you should know what to do with them, should the moment arise,” Holly explained.

Lucy blubbered at her, but no coherent words came out.

Holly glanced over her shoulder to see the Skull rolling with laughter in his jar. She tapped the glass again and smiled at him, “This is our little secret.”

The Skull stuck its tongue out and said something.

“Skull!” Lucy gasped and quickly crossed the room to turn the lever that blocked the Skull's voice from escaping. To Holly, she said, “W-why would you give me these?”

Holly placed a hand on Lucy's shoulder. “I know you have sisters, but they're not close. All of us here, we're a family. I'm just doing for you what I expect a close sister would have done,” she assured Lucy. “Only you and I, and the Skull, know about them so there's no pressure, but I wanted you to have them. Just in case.”

Lucy stared at the box. “Thanks,” she said finally. “I appreciate it.”

Holly smiled warmly and gave Lucy's shoulder a little pat.

…

And so, the package of condoms came to live in Lucy's nightstand. She wouldn't say that the thought of using them with Lockwood consumed her mind, but she definitely thought about them more than she should. She had one real problem with the condoms and that was how to broach the subject with Lockwood.

She wanted him—oh, she knew without a doubt that she wanted to take that next and final step with him and she imagined that he did too. The few times that she had shared his bed after nightmares, she woke with something prodding her in the back, but Lockwood was a perfect gentleman. He always excused himself to the bathroom before she could figure out if that was a good time to bring it up.

Lucy couldn't stand the thought of another lovely yet incredibly embarrassing conversation with Holly. As it was, she thought the other girl knew too much about her potential sex life with Lockwood. While she was sure Holly would have good advice, Lucy just couldn't bring herself to ask.

There was no way in hell she was going to try to talk with George about this either.

That left only one candidate. To be fair, he had been dead longer than she had been alive and if all his dirty jokes were anything to go by, he had some experience in the area. As much as Lucy hated the thought, she was going to ask the Skull for advice. At least he wouldn't be able to tell anyone about it.

Lucy waited until she was sure the rest of the house was asleep before creeping out of bed and rapping lightly on the Skull's glass.

He regarded her and then his eyes narrowed with delight. “Oh, I can tell whatever this is, you hate it. What is it? Tell me, I'm dying—I'm already dead!” the Skull cackled gleefully.

Lucy fought a blush, but he had already noticed it.

“Something embarrassing?” he asked with a grin. “Do tell.”

“I... I need some advice,” Lucy ventured.

“Advice?” the Skull asked. He momentarily sobered, picking over her expression and finding only pink-cheeked embarrassment rather than shame or fear.

“I want to... you know, with Lockwood,” she admitted. “And I don't know how to bring it up with him.”

The Skull nearly-shouted, “So you brought it up with me?! Ugh, my eyes! I'll never get that image out of my head now. I'll have to picture you and Lockwood bumping uglies for all eternity! I hope you're happy now!”

Lucy hushed him before remembering that only she could hear the Skull no matter how loud he shouted. “Would you stop? I just need a little—”

“Oh gods above!” the Skull exclaimed. “What if it _is_ little? Now I can't stop picturing it!”

Lucy's mouth dropped open in shock.

The Skull stopped shouting to goggle at her. “Now you're picturing it! Pervert!”

Lucy shook herself. “Would you stop? This was a mistake. Just forget I said anything!” She threw herself back into bed and yanked the covers over her head.

The Skull was quiet on the other side, mulling things over.

Lucy ventured to peep at him over the edge of her quilt.

“You know,” the Skull said finally, “you're all ready to talk to me about this, but did it ever occur to you to just talk to Lockwood? I mean, you talk about everything else under the bloody sun.”

Lucy thinned her lips. “I can't just ask him... Can I?”

The Skull made a gesture that looked like a shrug which was difficult being that he was only a head. “Why couldn't you?”

Lucy rolled the idea around in her head. Other than the embarrassment, which was less and less of a concern now that she was talking to the Skull, she couldn't see a downside to asking Lockwood directly. Besides, she was sure Lockwood would take her query more seriously than the Skull had. For sure he wouldn't howl to the heavens like his eyes had been burned with the thought of her naked.

“You're right,” Lucy admitted. “Thanks...”

The Skull slunk around in his ectoplasm. “We will never speak of this again,” he muttered, “and I don't want to know how it goes. As far as I'm concerned, Lockwood is a eunuch and you are a nun.”

“That's fair,” Lucy agreed.

…

Lockwood was good at what he did. He was a vision to watch at work or at play. Cobwebs clung to his dark hair, his pale face glistened with sweat, and his coat flapped around him. Lucy couldn’t help but steal glances up at him as she rummaged beneath the axed floorboards for the ghost’s Source. He was protecting her, fending off the spirit while she searched. He gave no quarter, didn’t retreat, and held the hungry phantom at bay with the flashing point of his rapier. The blade whistled almost cheerfully.

“Luce?” Lockwood asked. He wasn’t even out of breath, but his voice was concerned—probably because he was already standing over her as she dug beneath the floor. There was no clear path of retreat should they need it and they were trying to be better about getting into dangerous situations like this. “Anytime now.”

“Almost got it,” Lucy said. Her fingers brushed the icy-cold metal, but it slipped away. She was already bent over, arm buried beneath the floor to her shoulder, and the Source kept rotating out of reach with each brush of her fingers. What kind of ghost had a spoon for a Source anyway? “Just a little more.”

Lockwood slashed again. He shifted his weight and his leg brushed along Lucy’s side. He was warm even through his pants and the touch distracted her. She glanced up at him again, breath catching at the sight. He was so handsome, fighting like this, warding off spirits with a flick of his wrist.

Lucy shook herself, grabbed for the spoon, and hauled it triumphantly from beneath the floor.

The ghost noticed and shrieked with rage before Lucy could get a seal on the Source. It lunged at Lockwood, clawed fingers outstretched. He couldn’t step back without leaving Lucy vulnerable, but the slash of his rapier didn’t discourage the spirit now that its Source was in danger. It plowed forward regardless, fingers biting against Lockwood’s shirt.

Lucy’s heart stopped, but her hands fumbled for a seal. She bound the spoon tight in the same moment that Lockwood slashed the ghost from its forehead to its knees. Steaming ectoplasm splattered on his face and chest in the instant before it vanished. Lucy jolted to her feet, a cry trapped in her throat as she fumbled for a flask of lavender water.

Lockwood threw off his coat, untucked his shirt, tore half the buttons, hauled it off, and quickly scrubbed his face clean. Little welts, almost like sunburn, dotted his face. Holes had been seared through his shirt. His white chest heaved for breath, panting and glistening with sweat from exertion. Lucy poured water all over his hands and then patted some onto his face. When she finished, she found that he was simply gazing at her.

“Are you okay?” Lockwood asked.

“Am I okay?” she repeated. “You almost got ghost-touched!”

“Almost,” he confirmed with a cheeky smile. “Doesn't count.”

Lucy’s fingers lingered on his face, feeling the heat and texture of his skin.

He shivered, oversensitive where the ectoplasm had touched him.

Lucy’s gaze flit down his cheeks to his full mouth, down his throat and the bob of his fast pulse, over his sculpted chest, and settled on the abs that he always hid beneath his shirt. Well, he didn’t really hide. His clothes fit him well, hinting at the frame beneath, but Lucy had never gotten to see him exposed before—not so close, at least.

“Luce?” Lockwood asked.

She looked up hastily and met his eyes.

“I’m okay,” he told her.

Lucy flicked his belly with the tip of her finger. “I know that!”

His ruined shirt smoked at their feet. His coat was puddled on the floor just behind them. Lockwood’s white skin seemed to glow.

“Then, why are you looking at me like that?” he asked.

“I, um, ” Lucy began. Then, because she was absolutely a master at timing, she blurted, “I want to have sex with you.”

To his credit, Lockwood didn’t immediately fall over. He recovered quickly, giving her a warm smile and admitting, “I’d like that too, Luce, but… I don’t think now is a good time.”

Lucy fought not to let his rejection sting. He was right, of course, he was. They were in a haunted out, on a case, without the rest of the team to watch their backs. Even if Holly or George had been there, Lucy wouldn’t have asked them to cover while she and Lockwood slithered off. She took a hasty step back, her heart pounding.

Lockwood caught her hand. “Don’t run,” he said softly. “This isn’t me saying ‘no.’ This is just me reminding you that a haunted house where someone died protecting their hoard of expired chocolate pudding isn’t what I envisioned for our first time together, okay? Can we talk about it when we get home?”

His words startled a laugh out of her. “Of course,” Lucy agreed. “You’re right. I just… I didn’t mean to blurt it like that.”

Lockwood touched her cheek. “I’m glad you did.”

Lucy accepted a gentle peck from him.

Lockwood shouldered back into his coat, buttoning it over his bare chest. He picked up his ruined shirt and the sealed Source, wrapping them up together and stuffing them into his work belt. He holstered his rapier and offered his hand for Lucy to jump over the smashed opening in the floor. Then, he tucked her hand companionably into his elbow as he walked her out of the house.

“George is going out with Flo next weekend, staying overnight outside London for some kind of seminar about lost Sources,” Lockwood said once they were outside. The night was cool and open around them. “Holly will be at her apartment and there’s no reason for Kipps to disturb us.”

Lucy glanced at him curiously.

He looked over at her with a smile, the offer outstretched if she wanted to reach out and take it.

“We’ll have Portland Row to ourselves,” Lockwood told her.

Lucy grinned and leaned her head on his shoulder. “That sounds perfect,” she said with a smile. The thought of being with Lockwood tingled low and warm in her belly.

His palm was a little sweaty and she imagined he felt just the same.

They walked until they were able to hail a Night Cab and headed back to Portland Row with another successful case solved. If Lucy sat closer than usual to him in the backseat, Lockwood didn’t seem to mind. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and hugged her close. Lucy inhaled the scent of him and then closed her eyes.

…

It was time.

Lockwood answered Lucy's first knock. It was clear he was trying not to appear too eager, but Lockwood wasn't really one to hide his excitement. It was one of the things Lucy loved about him. Now, his dark eyes were alight, his lips were curved, and his flop of hair was more mussed than before. He had probably been dragging his hands through it as he did when he was slightly nervous. He had stripped off his vest and tie, loosened the top two buttons of his dress shirt, and removed his shoes. He looked good enough to eat.

A riot of renewed nerves took up root under Lucy's ribs. She had dragged herself up to her room earlier to shave everything she possibly could, scrub her body down, and wash her hair twice. However, the Skull somehow knew exactly what she was about to get up to with Lockwood and had made a slew of revolted noises that made it hard to stay in her room. Lucy had been busying herself in the basement for the last hour, waiting for their agreed-upon time to arrive with increasing nerves. She was wearing her usual uniform and hadn't even taken off her boots.

“Hi Lockwood,” she squeaked.

Lockwood's smile wavered. “Luce,” he said immediately. “If you don't want to, if you changed your mind, we don't have to—”

“No!” she blurted. “I want to!”

Lockwood looked startled by her outburst and then he smiled warmly. He stretched out a hand, cupped her flushed cheek, and towed her in for a kiss. His lips were warm, his breath was sweet, and his kiss was familiar. Lucy stepped gratefully into his arms, tangling her fingers in his hair and pulling him closer. His hands came easily to brace along her back, sandwiching every inch of her chest against his. She could feel the warmth of his hands through her shirt and his heartbeat between them. She sighed.

Lockwood drew the kiss gently away, keeping his forehead against hers. Softly, he asked, “Want to come in?”

Lucy nodded.

Lockwood held her hand as he pulled her into his room and closed the door lightly. Immediately, Lucy's breath caught at the sight. Lockwood's room was always pristine in a way the rest of the house wasn't and this was by far the messiest she had ever seen it. Lavender candles were scattered across his nightstand and dresser, setting the room in a warm amber glow. His blankets were turned down, revealing crisp blue-gray sheets and plumped pillows. A bouquet of jasmine was on the nightstand, its petals cast in light. The entire room smelled like sandalwood and flowers and home and Lockwood.

Lucy breathed deep, her heart fluttering.

“Too much?” Lockwood asked. “I wasn't sure about the candles, but I thought they were romantic. I hope that's—”

Now it was Lucy's turn to silence his fears with a kiss. She felt that she did it less gracefully than he did, but his arms came around her regardless and pulled her closer. His mouth slanted over hers and he breathed out. Lucy cradled his face in her palms when she pulled away, gazing into his dark eyes.

“It's beautiful,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

Lockwood pressed a kiss into her palm. “It's what you deserve.”

Lucy shivered at the heat in his words. This was everything she had wanted for her first time. She toed off her boots and shrugged out of her jacket. Lockwood watched her remove these layers, his face unreadable as he studied her. Lucy wondered what he was thinking and asked, “What is it?”

“You're sure you want this with me?” he asked in a faint voice. “Really sure?”

Lucy opened her mouth to tell him again, but he continued.

“Because if you didn't want this, but you went through with it anyway just because we agreed to it... I don't think I could take it.”

Lucy's heart clenched and her throat tightened. “Lockwood, no,” she assured him. “I want you so badly. I—I've been waiting for this all day. I'm so excited I can't stand it.” She reached into the pocket of her skirt and extracted the packet of condoms that Holly had given her. “I brought these,” she said. “But if you're having second thoughts...”

“Gods, no,” Lockwood said in a rush.

For the first time, Lucy noticed that his trousers were straining at his crotch.

She smiled. “You trust me right?”

“Of course.”

“Then trust that you'll be the first to know if I change my mind.”

Lockwood grinned, something just under his thousand watt smile, and the sight sent a flush of warmth to Lucy's belly. She set the condoms on the nightstand and bent to idly sniff the jasmine blossoms. Then, she turned back to face Lockwood. He was just watching her, his dark eyes glowing with candlelight.

“Undress me?” Lucy asked. “And I'll do the same for you?”

Lockwood stepped closer and tugged her in for another kiss. He grasped the bottom of her shirt and peeled it up, breaking the kiss long enough to pull it over her head. Then, he was back, teasing her lips open and snaking his tongue inside. He did something wicked, lapping against her and sucking gently. He dragged his teeth along her lower lip. Lucy fumbled her attempts at his buttons, but finally managed to focus enough to push his shirt off his shoulders. She eagerly ran her palms over his shoulders, down his chest, and settled them on his abdomen.

Lockwood's muscles quivered under her hands and he stifled a little giggle. “Tickles,” he murmured.

Lucy filed that away for the future and smoothed her palms more firmly over his skin. She reached around, gripping his naked back and pulling him closer. Lockwood made quick work of her bra, unfastening it deftly with both hands. The cups loosened and slipped down her arms. The first stirring of self-consciousness prickled in Lucy's heart. However, Lockwood didn't pull back to look. He kept kissing her, fingers curling the straps down lower and lower. He discarded the bra and then hugged her close. Their bared skin was warm and pressed deliciously together.

Lockwood's arms tightened around her and Lucy sighed in bliss. He broke the kiss, catching her eyes with a smile. Limned golden in the candlelight, he looked like something carved by the gods. Though Lucy rarely passed on a second doughnut, she was fit from fighting and figured that she had everything that counted to boys. Her breasts were small but perky, her legs were strong, her waist was firm, and her buttocks were plump. Lockwood's hands skated up her sides and his thumbs brushed the tender skin just beneath her breasts.

Lucy sucked in a shuddering breath and gave him a little more space to work by way of permission. Lockwood's calluses were rough, but his touch was gentle. He cupped her breasts, squeezing gently and then dragging his thumb over her peaked nipples. The sensations were less than Lucy had expected, but being touched by him was enough to send pleasure bolting through her middle. She found her hands gliding up his forearms, sliding around his biceps, over his shoulders, and up to his face. She cupped his sharp cheeks, memorizing the awe in his face as he took in her bare chest.

More and more of her worries melted away. He was looking at her like she hung the moon and she had never felt more stunning. Lucy guided one hand down from her chest, resting it against her hip and pushing his fingers underneath the waistband of her skirt. Lockwood met her gaze and she nodded. He began to shimmy the material down while Lucy unfastened his belt. The weight dragged his pants down almost immediately, but Lucy's skintight leggings were giving Lockwood some trouble. Lucy took a step away and skimmed off her leggings while Lockwood kicked aside his trousers.

Together in only their undergarments, bare-chested, they tangled in an embrace.

Lockwood kissed hear hungrily, slanting his mouth over hers. Lucy gasped as the pressure of his hands molded her to his every line. She hitched her leg around his hip, feeling his hardness bump against her for the first time. She became aware of just how wet she was, her panties clinging uncomfortably to the folds of her desire. She could feel the chill air on them, raising goosebumps all over her skin. Lockwood caressed her back and his fingers slid up to tangle in her hair.

She moaned at the sensation, unable to stop herself, and then flushed.

Lockwood paused to smirk at her, pleased with himself.

Lucy gave him a little push backwards towards the bed. To reclaim some of her power, she hooked her thumbs in her panties and shimmied them down just enough to show him nothing.

Lockwood paused, his eyes fixed on her body. His erection strained against his undergarments, a little wet spot forming.

It was Lucy's turn to smirk at his slack-jawed expression.

Lockwood caught himself, cleared his throat, plopped down on the bed, and beckoned her closer.

Lucy stopped teasing, left her panties half on, and stepped into the space between his legs. Lockwood grasped her hip, tugging her up to straddle his lap. Lucy went easily. With their height differences, she was almost level with him now that he was sitting and she was kneeling on the bed over his lap. The heat rolled off his body in waves. His desire for her was hard and weeping, bumping against her from underneath. Lucy canted her hips down, skating some pressure across him, and he groaned.

Lucy twisted back to reach for a condom. “Ready?”

“Are you?”

She moistened her lips. “Yeah.”

Lockwood held her close, hugging her against his chest. In one smooth movement, he pinned her against him, lifted her up, turned them around, laid her on the bed, and slotted between her thighs. His hands slid down her chest and her breath hitched when she realized he was reaching for the last barricade between them. She nodded eagerly as he skinned her panties off. She squeezed her legs together, blocked partially by his hips. However, Lockwood gave her a moment to come to terms with her nudity by evening the scales. He tugged down his shorts and kicked them off.

Lucy couldn't help but stare. It was the first cock she had seen in person. Somehow, it was all at once bigger and smaller than she had expected. Like Lockwood, his shaft was long and slender with a flushed weepy head and a muss of brown curls at the base. He wrapped his long fingers around it with a groan and it looked enormous in his hand.

Lucy swallowed, but her heart settled on excited rather than nervous. She had felt things out by herself and knew that she could fit more than expected inside. Letting her legs fall open, Lucy reached to touch him, running her fingers along the straining shaft. Lockwood's head tipped back and he groaned in bliss at her touch.

He stepped closer again, falling between her parted thighs and resting his weight on his elbows. “Can I touch you?”

“Please,” she whispered.

Lockwood kissed her again, sweetly, as he ran his hand down her belly to her core. Lucy flushed when she heard the wet squelch of his fingers meeting her flesh. God, she was ready for him. He stroked gently through her folds, feeling her out the way he would a ghost, memorizing her patterns, looking for her Source. He flicked her bud and watched her arch off the bed, smiling when he realized he had found it.

She was so wet for him that he fit two fingers inside easily and began to pump, pressing his thumb over her clit and rubbing briskly. It was nothing like touching herself. Everything felt sharper and tighter, coiling low in her belly and spreading like a mist. Her thighs quivered, torn between wantonly falling open to allow him greater access and closing to stop the waves of new feelings pouring over her.

Lucy instead wrapped her fingers around his shaft and relished his little groan of bliss. Her fingers just touched around his girth as she stroked his shaft, exploring the strange new territory the same way she explored herself. She felt out his wetness and smoothed it along his skin, allowing her hand to move a little faster. Lockwood's breath shuddered in his chest and he kissed her again, tongue snaking out to match the pace of his fingers inside. Without intending to, Lucy matched him.

He drew back with a gasp and laid his sticky hand over hers, guiding her away. “Wait,” he gasped. “Wait.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

He panted, breathless, and shook his head. “No, no,” he said. “On the contrary, you're too quick a study. I was about to...”

Lucy glanced at their hands and flashed him a smirk.

Lockwood kissed her again and reached for the condom on the nightstand. He tore it open and Lucy watched curiously as he rolled it down his shaft. The latex was smooth and pale with little whorls and ribs along its sides. She wondered what that was going to be like. Lockwood glanced at her from beneath his fringe.

Lucy lay back against the pillows, gazing at his handsome face as he slid up her body. Her legs came around his hips and he bumped against her core. Lucy held his shoulders, watching as he grasped his cock and aligned it with her body. He pressed in slowly, inch by painstaking inch. The stretch wasn't really painful, but it wasn't a burst of pleasure like she had been expecting. Lockwood fit inside her neatly, bottoming out with his head pressed to her womb. He breathed out and Lucy did the same.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Lucy gave a little wiggle. “I think so.”

“It didn't hurt?”

“Not really.”

Lockwood pulled out and experimentally thrust back in.

Lucy gasped, feeling the whorls and ridges against her walls in addition to the length and girth of Lockwood's shaft. She clung to him, her fingers digging into his biceps at the pressure. He watched her face, rocking into her slowly at first. She gasped and keened, throwing her head back into his pillows as he quickened his pace.

Soon her breath was exploding from her lungs along with little whimpers and moans. She wanted to be sexy, but she was just lost to the sensations of him. She wanted more. She coiled her legs around his hips, pressed him deeper, and dragged his mouth down to hers. Lockwood's kiss was sloppy, his attention divided between kissing her and filling her. She probably wasn't making it easy, clinging to him the way she was and gasping incoherently. She dug her heels into his behind and gripped him.

She wanted it harder, faster, longer. She wanted to feel more. She pressed one hand on the mattress for leverage and began trying to meet him thrust for thrust. Lockwood's face glistened and his dark hair stuck to his forehead. He doubled down, gripping her hip firmly with one hand so he could thrust into her harder. Lucy threw her head back, breasts bouncing with the force, and whined low in her chest. It felt so good, but she felt like she just needed a little more.

Recalling what Lockwood's fingers had felt like, she pushed her free hand between their bodies and began to rub her pearl. It was swollen and flushed with blood. Every touch felt like an electric shock, tightening and winding inside her. It was only spurred on with Lockwood's thrusts and Lucy squeezed her eyes shut. All at once, her muscles went taut and she felt something go off inside her. Her toes curled, her head tipped back, her mouth dropped open, and her eyes fell shut. She couldn't even think to moan, she just threw herself into the ocean of pleasure.

Lockwood shuddered, looking down at her stunning face as she came. He struggled to keep tabs on his own orgasm and managed to continue to move while she came, but the rhythmic clutch of her inner muscles pulled him over the edge like a boat swept out to sea. He buried himself to the hilt inside her and sagged down, bracing his weight on his elbows as he caught his breath. He could feel her twitching around him, could feel himself emptying, feel that wave of endorphins making his heart feel overfull.

He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her lips.

Lucy moved quickly to return his kiss, bringing her arms up around his sweaty back and hugging him tight. “That was... great,” she breathed.

“You were amazing,” he confirmed with a light peck.

Lockwood carefully eased his soft cock out of her, peeled off the condom, and fetched a handful of tissues to clean up the mess. Then, he cuddled up beside her. Lucy turned on her side to face him, curling into his warm embrace. Lit by the candles, warm and satisfied, she felt like everything was a dream.

They lay together for a long time. Lockwood kept dragging strands of Lucy's short tresses through his fingers. Lucy traced a scar she found along his ribs, feeling the change in texture of his skin and delighting in the way he squirmed when she reached a particularly sensitive place. The candles flickered all around them, casting everything in a dreamy glow. Lockwood kissed her often, sometimes deeply, sometimes softly, always with impossible tenderness and affection. Lucy hoped he could tell how much he meant to her, how much this meant to her, how much she loved him.

Before long, Lockwood's member twitched back to hardness. He pressed it between his thighs and murmured, “Sorry. You're just... so beautiful, Luce.”

She palmed his erection, examining it a little more curiously in the full light. “It's okay,” she said. “Do you want to go again?”

“Are you sure?”

She bit her lip shyly and nodded.

Lockwood sprang up, snatched another condom, and tore it open like a present. Lucy was still wet, growing wetter with his every kiss and touch. She found herself rising on her knees to meet him, tingling with anticipation. She wanted to try something she'd read about. On her hands and knees, she turned her bottom towards Lockwood and grinned at him over her shoulder.

“Luce?”

She patted her bottom. “Come on, Lockwood,” she said with a smile.

Lockwood knelt on the bed behind her. His long-fingered hands ran down her back and sides, making her shiver. He pressed into her, gripping her hips to impale her thoroughly on his cock. She whimpered, back arching at the new fullness. He felt bigger, deeper, like this, but what she really wanted was to feel his calluses on her clit. She moved one of his hands from her hip to her pearl and it didn't take him long to understand. He began to thrust, thrumming against her bundle of nerves with his rapier calluses.

Lucy keened, arching her neck in an attempt to look at him. It wasn't easy and made her spine kink. She soon found herself looking down at her hands where she gripped his sheets, panting to catch her breath as he pounded into her. Her entire body felt hot and cold, tingling and over-sensitive. Her breasts bounced, gravity weighing on her in this new position.

Lucy had trimmed her nails before coming to see Lockwood, but maybe she should have taken Holly up on that offer to get manicures. Was that nail polish?

It came like a flash—just a snapshot, one image spliced into Lucy's mind, spilling out from the memories she thought she was done with.

Clara's freckled hands scrabbling at the mattress, her chipped pink nail polish, the button on her pajamas cutting into her neck.

Lucy cried out. She blinked back to awareness. Quickly, she grasped Lockwood's hand and pulled it away from her hip. She interlaced their fingers, making him bend awkwardly over her to continue to thrust. His chin knocked into her shoulder, his breath gusted past her ear, and the angle changed to pummel painfully against her walls. Lucy winced, but stared at their interlaced fingers. Her hands were nothing like Clara's and Lockwood's were familiar. She was safe, she was fine, she was in Lockwood's bed.

The smell of sweat washed over her, filling her nose and lungs, choking her.

Lockwood's fingers thrummed her clit, spiking pleasure through her. His cock pressed uncomfortably against her front, pounding at a strange angle now that she had pulled him forward, sending surges of pain through Lucy's body. She gasped for breath, trying to find a way to recapture her earlier bliss. It danced away from her, tantalizing, teasing.

Lucy reached for it.

“Luce,” Lockwood gasped. His knees shifted, trying to find purchase on the bed.

She let out her breath, rocking back to meet him. She was with Lockwood, she was safe, she wanted to enjoy this.

“Can you spread your legs a little bit more?”

Those weren't the words said to Clara, but they were close. Panic bolted through Lucy's chest, constricting her heart and closing her throat. Her eyes filled with tears. She dug her nails into Lockwood's hand even as she jerked away from him, twisting them both over on his bed.

The breath exploded from Lockwood's lungs as he hit the pillows, his wrist wrenched by Lucy's grip and his cock sliding out of her with a pop.

She curled on her side, hiding her face in her hands, sobbing and gasping.

Lockwood quickly pulled the sheets between them so she wouldn't have to feel his skin and gathered her in his arms. “Lucy, Luce,” he said gently. He stroked her sweaty tangled hair out of her face, cupping her cheek and bringing her to meet his eyes. “Hey, hey, I'm with you. It's okay. I'm here. You're here. We're at Portland Row.”

Lucy sucked in air. “I know,” she gasped. “Sorry, it was the position. I had a flashback.”

“What do you need?” he asked.

“To get cleaned up,” she whispered. “I can smell our sweat.”

Lockwood nodded. Carefully, he climbed out of bed, peeled off the used condom, shrugged into his dressing gown, and disappeared into the bathroom. Lucy heard the water start up. Shakily, she sat up and dragged her hands through her hair. Tangled in Lockwood's sheets, she felt all at once concealed and totally bare. Lockwood returned to her, kneeling at her feet. His hands hovered a moment, tentative, before he rested them on her knees.

“Hey,” he murmured.

“Oh, Lockwood,” she sobbed. “I'm so sorry. Just when I think this is over, something like this happens. I'm so sorry—”

Lockwood pulled her close, hushing her. “It's not your fault,” he whispered. “I should have thought about it before trying that out.”

“I wanted it,” Lucy sniffled. She squeezed Lockwood tight. “It wasn't your fault either.”

“Okay,” Lockwood agreed. He rested his forehead against hers. “Let's get you rinsed off. I filled the tub.”

“Get in with me?” she asked.

“If you like.”

Lockwood untangled Lucy from his sheets. Naked, she padded into the bathroom and stood for a moment in awe of his deep comfortable tub. Lockwood held out his hand and she held it while she stepped in. Then, he shrugged out of his robe and slipped in behind her. Lucy settled against his chest with a sigh, interlacing their fingers and holding tight.

The warm water relaxed muscles she hadn't even realized were sore. The smell of soap and clean wrapped around her as soothingly as Lockwood's long arms. She cuddled into him, turning her head to steal a kiss. Lockwood ran his free hand along her arm and down her bent knee. Her skin was soft and warm, smooth and hairless. He adored her, even as he hated what their job had put her through. Lucy was so brave.

“Lockwood,” Lucy murmured.

“Hmm?”

“You're poking me.”

Startled, he quickly tried to press his erection down. “Sorry,” he said. “It's just—”

“Don't apologize,” Lucy said. She sat up and the warm water sluiced off her shoulders. “Wait here.”

“Luce—”

“I said wait here.”

She stepped out of the tub, didn't bother to dry off, darted into the bedroom, and then hustled back. She practically jumped into the tub again, facing Lockwood with a condom held up between them. “Can we try again?”

“Here?” he asked.

Lucy shrugged. “Why not?”

Lockwood swallowed, took the condom from her, lifted his hips enough to roll it on, and then held it in place at the base while Lucy straddled him. She rested her hands on his shoulders and slowly sank down with a sigh of bliss. Lockwood groaned, his eyes fluttering closed as her tight heat closed around him. Lucy rested against him, their faces practically level once again. She studied his pleasured face, memorizing the way his eyes closed and his mouth quirked. She twisted a curl around her damp finger.

“Good?” Lockwood asked.

“Much better,” she agreed.

Lockwood steadied her hips as she began to move. The water was noisy and messy which meant Lucy was mostly relegated to rocking and grinding against his hardness, but there was something sexier about their closeness than the frenzied thrusting of their first time. Lucy kissed Lockwood often and he was able to run his hands all along her back. He kissed her sweetly, then passionately, then filthily. His sucked her tongue into his mouth, dragged his teeth against it, and nibbled her lips.

Lucy gasped, her legs slipping and leaving her fully impaled on his cock. He groaned, pressing her down with one hand on her hip. She ran her hands down his chest, bracing herself against the sides of the tub as she tried to get moving again. Bubbles clung to her breasts and Lockwood blew them away cheekily.

“Let's get out,” Lucy muttered when she couldn't find a good place for her feet.

Lockwood nuzzled into her cleavage. “Come on, this is fun,” he said.

Lucy tugged his hair, tilting his head back so she could kiss him. “It is, but I keep slipping.”

“Fine,” he agreed.

They climbed out of the tub, but didn't even dry off before they were all over each other. Lucy's nipples rose to peaks with the chill. Lockwood delightedly pinched one between his fingers and tugged, making her hiss. He picked her up and deposited her on the bathroom vanity. Lucy wrapped her legs around his hips, guiding her back inside her with a groan. Lockwood thrust a few times, able to actually set a pace now that they were out of the water.

“Now this,” Lucy moaned, “is better.”

Lockwood smiled and kissed her throat. He set the pace that he sorely wanted after their false start, pounding into her with abandon. She was wet and open and so warm. She clung to him, head thrown back, mouth issuing little whimpers and groans. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever laid eyes on. He braced her so she wouldn't fall backwards into the mirror, angling his hips so that his pubic bone bumped her clit. She gasped, eyes fluttering open to bestow a smile upon him. Taking his cue, she snaked a hand between them and began to play with herself.

He felt her muscles seize, clutching around his shaft, sucking him inside deeper and deeper. He continued to thrust, trying to keep the pace even as he felt his self-control begin to unravel. Lucy dug her heels into his lower back, spurring him on. He tried to hold on, but she was gasping directly into his ear and he could feel her muscles squeezing. He came hard, shuddering all over. Lucy felt him twitch, his pace veering off, and quickly opened her eyes to look at him.

There were few times that Lockwood didn't look amazing. He was sensual and gorgeous even first thing in the morning, but Lucy didn't think anything would ever top the expression on his face when he orgasmed. She kissed his closed lids, memorizing the fall of his hair and the pinch of his nose. She wanted to remember this forever. He breathed hard, his head resting against hers as he slowed and softened inside her.

“Did you...?” he asked, glancing between them.

Lucy let her hand drop. “No, but that's okay,” she said. She combed his dark hair out of his face, dropping another spray of kisses on his upturned face. “I got to see you this time.”

Lockwood flushed adorably. “Let me—”

Lucy shook her head and shivered as the water cooled on her skin. “Let's just get back in the tub, okay?”

Lockwood nodded, peeled off the condom, and stepped back into the water. It was still warm enough to enjoy though most of the bubbles had diminished. He held Lucy's hand and helped her in. She immediately curled on her side, resting her head on his chest so that she was almost completely submerged. Lockwood slid his fingers through her damp hair, stroking lightly.

Lucy looked up at him and just smiled.

All the questions he had been planning to ask her shriveled and died. In her eyes, he saw that everything might not be okay right now, but everything would be alright eventually. He dipped his head and kissed her again, breathing in her breath and feeling her fingers curl against his chest right over his heart.

XXX

“To heal is to touch with love that which we previously touched with fear.” —Stephen Levine

Questions, comments, concerns?


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